The Opera Wench
by my-echo
Summary: COMPLETE. Currently undergoing revision. Almost two years prior to the advent of Christine, a young dancer stumbles upon the mysterious Erik one night and feels a strange affinity for him. Leroux-based.
1. The Shade

**A/N: This marks the THIRD time I've gone back and revised the early chapters. My writing style has changed and matured a lot since I first began work on this story, and I've learned some valuable lessons in the 4+ years since its birth (for example, never randomly switch back and forth between POV without a line break, because it gets confusing; never get too distractingly verbose or florid with your word choices, etc.). Also, the later chapters in this story started to tend to be very long, so the second time around I thought it would be a good idea to go back and lengthen a lot of the earlier chapters to make it more consistent. This time around, I'm planning to do that again.**

**I still owe many thanks to Jordie (MasqueradingThroughLife) for encouraging me in the very early stages and beyond, back when writing on FFN (and this story in particular) was nothing more than an enjoyable experiment for me. If it hadn't been for her, I probably would have trashed this when I reached the second chapter. **

**-3/18/10**

* * *

It was late. The halls were silent, almost unnaturally still. The chatter of girls and workers had long since died, and nearly all were abed, or at least in their respective sleeping-places. Lights had been put out, and there was a kind of eerie calm, almost jelly-like, clotting. Not one thing appeared to move in the dark halls but the shade in the felt hat, and he was preoccupied with other matters.

Had anyone made their way through a certain hall at that particular moment, they might have caught a glimpse of a white glimmer appearing in the near-blackness, the ballet costume of the slim dancer who had gone wandering for a thrill. Had they been able to ascertain her thoughts, they might have discovered that she was, at the moment, following a shadow which had passed swiftly by the dormitories only minutes ago, a shadow which had oddly impressed her with its height and movement—and caused a suspicion to erupt within her which she felt compelled to explore.

It was not the shade in the felt hat that she felt such keen interest in—in fact, she fervently hoped the aforementioned would not catch her, for she'd heard rather delightfully terrible stories about what happened to young women caught wandering. The shadow the girl had been following—the one she'd seen a moment before—was of a different caliber, a far more mysterious and inexplicable one. It was almost gone. She sprinted after it. "Wait!" she called—softly, however, so as not to rouse anybody. "Wait!"

But the shadow had already disappeared into the darkness, and the girl barely kept herself from uttering a curse. Her head turned, frantically, suspicions and superstitions whirling in her head until she felt as though she were spinning. "Is it you?" she whispered blindly, shivering, thinking herself mad for talking to what was likely nothing. "Are you the one they talk of all the time in whispers…and in girlish shrieks? _Are_ you the one? Are you?"

There was a long silence, in which she thought she might drown, and then, all at once, it seemed she heard a rattling breath some distance away. As she moved toward the sound, a voice echoed just beside her, making her recoil with fright. "Who do you think I am?" the voice whispered, surprising her with its soft, sensual velvet. It was so sleek that she felt her back arch.

"Oh," she breathed, not even thinking of her sudden alarm, "You're the Opera Ghost, aren't you?" But no, that was ridiculous. No ghost would have a voice like that. Would it?

She shivered with excitement and a little bit of terror, feeling a cold sweat upon her back, sticking to her dress. The voice took a long time to answer—so long that the girl thought he had gone away, until she heard a deep, long sigh. The strangely dulcet voice—male, she realized—came now from a place to her left. "It is better," the voice said, "not to know me."

She recovered almost at once, her eyes widening. "But I want to! I do! I—" She reached toward the voice, but found nothing. There was a dry sound, almost like a chuckle.

"So," it hissed, "you want to know me?" The voice was behind her. She stumbled toward it, grasping.

"I have dreamed of—" She tripped over a fallen beam, and looked around, confused. "Where are you?" she cried, then clapped her hands over her mouth for fear of the shade in the felt hat.

"Over here, child..." The voice came from very far away. She followed, breathlessly.

"Take me to secret places," she whispered, beginning to be utterly convinced that she had fallen into some sort of spectral, living dream. _Meg Giry would turn purple with jealousy if she found out! _the girl thought.

"Child." The male voice made that dry sound again, the chuckle, and she shuddered momentarily, for it was not a pleasant sound. "I will show you the most secret place of all. STOP!"

She stumbled, looking about frantically. Where _was _he—it—whatever or whoever this was? Could it be possible that someone was playing a trick, a joke? She'd be boiling mad if—

"I am going to come to you now," the voice breathed suddenly. "If you scream, I shall render you unconscious and carry you back to the dormitories. Is that clear?"

She breathed heavily, contemplating this. Were it not for her insatiable curiosity, she would have run back to the dormitories long ago. "Ye…yes."

A hand took hers. She jumped, but stifled a cry of alarm, remembering his admonition, willing herself to be silent for the moment. The hand was sheathed in a leather glove. She felt it, felt the bones in his hand and the wrist and the forearm—how unnaturally slender they were!—and his bony, protruding shoulder. "You're real," she breathed. "Oh!—you're real—but—you're—like—a—corpse."

The voice, so close now she could feel its breath upon her face from a foot away, sighed, chuckled a bit, but the sound seemed strained. "That was what they used to call me, sweet child—how prophetic you are!—" the voice hissed, a hint of sarcasm in its timbre—"_The Living Corpse!_"

She jumped a little, completely unnerved. The hand guided her around the set pieces, pulling, always pulling, and then the darkness became even blacker.

She shook, fingers slipping, but the arm steadied her.

After what seemed like hours of walking—during which she felt increasingly as though she were in some sort of fantastic dream—they embarked on a boat, gliding on a dark, remote underground lake. There were no lights, other than the faint blue haze, nothing to guide them. It appeared her gaunt host could see in the dark, which furthered her amazement—but perhaps, she thought, it was merely long experience that taught him to instinctively know whence he went. She felt tremors, shudders, passing through her body, almost uncontrollably. It was cold in these caverns, but it was not merely temperature which rendered her thus. Her nervous anticipation of what awaited beyond the lake made her shiver far more.

"Do you have a name, ghost?" she asked suddenly, feeling a surge of boldness for no particular reason other than the fact that they had bumped against land—or stone, as it happened.

"Yes." He was so silent, apart from that curt reply. She tried to ignore her fear, stood up unsteadily in the rocking boat, and grasped his arm. "What is it?" she inquired.

The shadow started, as if shocked by the voluntary human contact, and said, in a slightly halting, unnerved tone, "Erik."

There. At least there was some sort of appellation to put to her shadow now. "Do you know my name?" she asked curiously, sure he would not.

To her bemusement, he replied, "I know the names of most of the people who work and live and train here at the Opera House."

"But, gh…Erik, I mean…do you…do you know _my _name?" she pressed as they walked through a dark opening, feeling a bit embarrassed at nearly calling him _Ghost _again. Suddenly feeling a dreadful, cold fear, she stopped, but he pulled her on for a few more feet before something shut ponderously behind them.

Her breath came in little spurts. Was she to be walled up alive in a tomb? No—there was _something _here—there was a dimly burning torch to her left, which gave the place a kind of eerie, glowing cast. The "ghost"—Erik—touched a space on the wall, and the entire place burst into blooming candlelit splendor as if by magic.

She was now able to see her host clearly for the first time. His face was completely covered by an expressionless and hollow white mask. The eye-holes were black and empty, and he seemed gaunter and more corpse-like than ever as he turned toward her.

"Yes." he said, finally answering her query. "I know your name, inquisitive child." She stared at him, trying not to show how unnerved she was at his spectral appearance.

"Wh—what is it, then?" she stammered, her voice barely a whisper. He sighed quietly, as if to say I'm-tired-of-your-stupid-questions. "Silly little Margot," he said. "You see? Of course I know your name." She smiled, then, a secret, triumphant smile.

"Your real name," he continued lazily, "is Tora, but it's not at all French, so you changed it and only your closest friends now know you by your Christian name. Is that right, little 'Margot?'"

She gasped, and saw the mask move at the corners, which meant—she thought—that he was smiling. She was not at all sure she liked his smile. It smacked of something dreadful and crass.

Tora shrugged, closing her eyes and opening them again, squinting in the unaccustomed light.

"Do you like my domain?" he asked, sweeping his hand in an arc.

"I suppose," she said. "What's wrong with your face, _monsieur_?" The question was asked flippantly, a bit more rudely than she meant, for she was sure that it was only to disguise his identity—perhaps, she thought with a shiver, he was wanted by the police.

She knew immediately, however, that she had asked the wrong question. He clenched his fist as if he were contemplating striking her. "I wear this mask," he said softly, dangerously, "to hide a rather unfortunate disfigurement—from birth."

"I—I didn't know," she said lamely, feeling horribly embarrassed. She wanted to ask _How could I have known? _but it seemed too forward, too defensive.

"Joking, were you?" he asked. The sarcasm built to hide the anger in his voice was frightening.

She swallowed. "Y…yes," she whispered. "I really didn't think…"

He relaxed slightly, the pent-up anger seeming to fade. "Women never think," he said coldly, although she thought perhaps he didn't quite mean it. She pursed her lips, paused, and put out her hand.

Her fingers touched his mask, lightly as feathers. He stiffened, a board, a tree, and she felt some long, strange shiver beneath her hand.

She moved her fingers over it, gently. Smooth whiteness...it almost felt like porcelain, but it was too thin and flexible for that. She could feel his bones beneath it.

He tentatively grabbed her hand.

"Friends, Erik?" she whispered, although she shivered from the coldness of his own fingers, and the uncertainty of just who or what this strange persona could possibly be.

He looked away. "If you knew—if you knew—what I looked like—" he muttered fiercely. Tora took her hand away.

Erik backed away a little. "Tell me," he said, "why—and how—you came. To the Opera."

Tora's eyes darted. "I was so small, you know…I don't…"

"You remember," he said. "Your eyes are blinking too much to be telling a truth." Tora shrunk back a bit. "Oh," she said in a small voice. The gaunt spectre sat upon a nearby divan, crossed his leg upon his knee, and folded his hands, waiting. His gaze, peering through the holes which afforded him sight, unnerved her even more than his odd appearance.

Her tongue felt loose, suddenly, and her lips began to move as if not by their own will. "I was small when they brought me here," she murmured. "I was a child, I couldn't have been more than...five? I wandered onto a French boat from America. I'd always loved her colors. I stole food from the galley when the cook wasn't looking, and it was a long time before anyone found me. When they did—" she broke off.

"Continue," said Erik smoothly, one finger twitching slightly.

"The captain was tall—his beard was red, if I remember it. He kept me in his cabin, was very kind to me. I reminded him of his small girl at home, I think—he often spoke of her, and said her name was Anne. He told me that he'd take me back home as soon as we got to France and unloaded the cargo. But I didn't want to go home, though I made up lies to tell him about my parents, who must be worried. I had no father, actually, none that I knew, at any rate, and my m..." She stopped, shivered.

He was watching her intently.

"I...wandered off the boat when nobody was looking. They were too busy unloading, trading. Found my way here, a child beggar. Mother Giry, I remember—did she have more teeth then? She took such pity upon me. She pulled some strings. The manager at the time was a friend of her husband, or so she's told me, and she managed to persuade him to find work for me. At first I scrubbed floors, but then one day I saw the dancers, and I began to dance, still holding my mop."

Erik sighed.

Tora looked at him. He had not moved since the time she began. "And then the ballet mistress saw me. I remember the little wrinkles around her eyes pinching as she grabbed my arms and studied me, and told me to spin, and to stand upon one foot and all sort of nonsense. I suppose I impressed her. She said I had potential. I didn't even know what the word meant."

He still had not moved, but the corners of his mask had gone up again. His chin was an odd color. It was whiter than the mask concealing the rest of his visage, but there was a strange yellow tint to the skin.

She continued, slowly. "I grew up here. I live in the dormitories, as you probably know, and as long as I dance well, I've been promised room and board." She paused, mouth pinching. "It could also have something to do with that disgusting rich woman that Mother Giry convinced to pay a small yearly donation on my behalf as a sort of charity."

Erik's leg shifted, but otherwise he still did not move.

"And as to why I followed you...I...I always had a—a bit of a fixation for the supernatural, you know…"

He chuckled. She shivered. "And do you find me…" he grinned behind his mask, or seemed to, "…_supernatural_…?"

She shivered again. "Well," she managed. "You'd be more real if you'd remove the—"

"No."

Tora flinched. "I assure you, I wouldn't scream."

He moved a little closer. His breath wafted out from the mask, and it stank. "You want to see Erik's face?"

She moved back, courage failing her. "I'm…not sure."

He lifted it a little, grinned. She shivered violently. He didn't have any lips—or rather, not much to speak of.

"See this mouth?" he whispered bitterly. "It is a dead mouth, but from it comes the most exquisite and passionate song! See?"

And then he sang, and she thought that she would die. Surely heaven was something akin to this. This tumultuous, beautiful tempest, majesty, wonder...

But then she looked at him, and she shuddered, for he had gone silent; with that silence, reality had come crashing back in all its dark glory. Perhaps it was a sort of purgatory. Not quite hell, but surely not heaven.

He did not grin. He stared at her.

Tora leaned forward, wondering, despite her fear, what was hidden underneath. "_Are_ we friends, now, Erik?" she whispered.

He sat, unmoving, but when her fingers went toward the mask, he twitched backward violently. "I warn you," he said quietly, "if you see my face, it will be all over. And we will not be friends. You will hate and fear me—"

"No," she said.

"You will hate and fear me," he said as if he had not heard, "and you will not want to see your Opera Ghost anymore, will you? You will tell the others what you've seen, and then they will pay a visit to Erik! And then they will not see anyone anymore! Tell me, sweet child, have you ever been responsible for sending anyone to their death?"

The stricken girl blanched. "No…"

He leered at her. "Keep your prying fingers away, then. Or you surely will be."

She shivered. "Why did you bring me here?"

He stared at her. "You know, I've been wondering that myself. I have these whims. They come and go. And you looked so vulnerable and lost and yearning, standing there, that I could find no trace of betrayal in you, and I thought," he continued in a whisper, " 'Perhaps it is time to let this one into my confidence…after all, what harm? What harm, indeed, a curious girl-child?'

I did not think," he thundered suddenly, "of the consequences that might befall both you and me if I were to bring you here and you were frightened by all that you had seen! I am mad! I must be, to bring you here, when I don't even know you so very well! We have never had a conversation before this night! You have never seen me in my glory before this! We have had glimpses and shadows of each other, and I tell you, it was madness to bring you here!"

He was shouting, his voice reverberating around the massive stone walls. The poor girl screamed and covered her ears. His voice was like a god of thunder! Of lightning! Oh, terrible and amazing sound!

He gazed at her collapsed form, her hands clenched tightly upon her ears, and when she unscrewed her eyes from their tightly closed condition, she saw that his stiff form had sagged a little.

"_Now_ look—" he said more softly, although sounding a tad impatient and frustrated with both himself and his feminine guest, "I have gone and hurt you, haven't I? Mad Erik! First to bring you to this my most secret and sacred of all places, and then to go and burst your eardrums! I am sorry, _chérie_," he said quickly, helping her up, "I didn't mean…"

"Forget the matter, Erik," she said quietly. "I am all right now."

"Ah," he said, "I keep forgetting how resilient these chorus-girls are! Give them a fright, and they recover almost at once! Take little Sophie, for instance…she saw me once, when I was careless…and she went about the House screaming, 'The Opera Ghost! The Opera Ghost!' but it was not so very long before her nerves were calmed. Why, she thought the whole thing a great joke! She was influenced by her peers that she had seen nothing more than a shadow, or that idiot Buquet playing a trick, which of course he would never admit to even if he had, so that was the convenient alibi, you see? I am getting chatty…you must be bored to tears, child. Why are you looking at me like that? You are curious! Curious, after my outburst! Upon my word, do you little Opera wenches never learn a thing? Curious still!" He left off speaking for a moment.

Tora watched him, struck by sudden impulse. "Please…" she said, "if we're friends now, Erik, I ought to be able to have a right to see—"

His penitent mood quickly vanished.

"You have no right at all! Right!" he moaned, "oh, you mad thing! I've half a mind to drown you, but that would serve no purpose at all! Right! You probing little creature! A common whore has less bold nerve than you! Right, indeed! You little slattern!"

Tora was quite shocked by the turn this conversation was taking, and the effect her continued inquisitiveness was having upon her frightening host.

She had a sudden flash of ill humor, and with it came a wicked desire to both tease and offend. "You've had experience with whores, then?" she said demonically.

She felt rather than saw the blow to the side of her head which left her nearly unconscious. She screamed again, partly from terror of and partly from hoping it would bring him back to his senses before he dealt her another, perhaps killing, blow.

He brought his foot back as if to kick her.

"Erik," she gasped, "I'm sorry! I shan't say anything to upset you again! Please, Erik, forgive me! I shan't ever say anything like it again!"

He paused, trembling. "Oh, you dare…" he breathed. "You dared…"

"Yes," she said dizzily, through heavy breathing, while managing to be matter-of-fact, "I did." Her head spun, and her words sounded drunk. "Now will you please be a gentleman and help me up?"

He quivered. Then he gave her a hand and burst out laughing. He fairly roared with laughter for a moment, and then began to be a little calmer. "Oh, you awful little fool!" he chuckled. Again, it was not a pleasant sound.

Tora shuddered again, but managed a twisted smile. "_Will_ you apologize for hurting me?" she asked demandingly, putting a hand to her head and closing her eyes against the bursts of pain.

He stared at her. "You bold little thing! You never learn by experience, but rather, fright makes you even bolder! You're a sight to be seen!"

She shivered. "I do wish you'd apologize."

"Then_, mademoiselle_," he said, bowing with an air of biting sarcasm, "I most certainly do."

Tora looked at him, expressionlessly, not sure what to think. "Tell me about yourself," she said quietly. "I've told you quite a lot about me."

He kept staring. "All my life I've never heard nor seen such a strange little inquisitive bird as the one that's flown upon my doorstep. She does not flee from snakes or hawks, this bird, but rather, seems to welcome them! Find me! she cries, and they find her, and they wound her and frighten her. And then she licks her wounds and invites them to come again! Oh, mad little bird!...When will she learn? When will she see? It is a monster that stands in front of her, and she wants to know more about him! The bird would do better to flee!"

Tora flinched, though, to her credit, not much. "The bird is intrigued, _monsieur_," she said coolly, "and senses danger, but not imminently so, from the thin masked hawk who calls himself monster! Let me be the judge, Erik, will you?"

He sighed. It was a long, weary sigh. "Oh, child," he whispered, "If only you knew…knew…the monster standing in front of you…"

"It is no monster I see," she said, touching his mask. There was another electric shiver up his spine. She felt it through her fingers. It made her feel hot and cold at the same time. They didn't move for a long time.

"What _do_ you see?" he whispered. She thought she heard him pant a little.

Tora held her breath, her hand quivering. "I'm not quite sure, in truth. I don't know enough about you yet, really nothing at all."

He waited.

"But what I see…" she stammered, her voice going faster than it should have, "what I behold with my eyes now is not a ghost at all, but a recluse hiding in corners and scaring the Opera girls—which does not make him monster, but I feel compelled to ask myself, 'Why does a man hide down here, in the bowels of the Opera House, and why…why has he revealed himself to me?'"

There was silence for a moment or two. "Tora," he said, very softly. "I am...horribly lonely. It has been a long time since I heard a human voice—one addressed to me, that is. I am glad of your company, though it sticks in my throat to admit that I, of all people, crave human company! I, no more living human than the bloated corpses dragged from the River Seine when it has flooded the crowded streets."

Tora shivered. "But you _are _a man!" she whispered violently. "How can you so callously deny your humanity! You desire the same as any other man! I felt it when I touched your face!" She shivered, open-mouthed, at the bold statement.

He sat there, unmoving. There was only the barest perceptible stiffening of his shoulders, which made her think that she had gone too far. Would this put ideas in his head? Worse still, would he think her some common whore?

As if reading her thoughts, he said, very quietly, "Don't flush so, Tora. You are an impulsive child—my God, how impulsive you are! Not that I believe in God," he added dryly, "but all the same, you are ridiculously bold. Yes, I desire! I have never felt a woman's embrace, no, never! And why, why? Because of this horrid face, this monstrosity which you still have not seen! Oh, if you saw me, in all my awful splendor, how you would weep! How you would scream! How you would recoil! I—"

"Never," she said.

"Have it your way," he said, with forced patience. "Well, child? Did my bold assertions make you quiver with discomfort? Do you think that I have dragged you here to satisfy my own monstrous appetites, which have gone unsated my entire, weary life? Oh, how tired I am! I wish that I could go to sleep and never wake up, never! I am so very…" He broke off. Tora thought with a kind of horror that he might start weeping. He seemed quite close.

"Look here…" she said, trying to be kind, sounding like a mother with a child she has just spanked, "I didn't mean…How odd you are! What I mean to say is," she added hurriedly, seeing him raise his head ominously, "You misinterpret things. You don't understand people, do you? You…" she trailed off, sounding more like the child who had been spanked than the penitent mother.

He sighed. "I don't. It's true."

She sat next to him on the battered but beautiful divan. "Erik," she said slowly, "You frighten me a little. I won't deny it. But you intrigue me, too. I'm dreadfully curious about you."

"Perhaps to your detriment," he said darkly.

"Oh, don't talk that way," she said, shivering. "What's it called when one metal is drawn to another?"

"Magnetism," he said.

"Yes, that's it," she said a little breathlessly, embarrassed at her childish inability to remember such terms. "It's as though you're a kind of magnet. You draw curiosity and terror wherever you go, but you don't terrify me. You merely give me a little pause."

Erik sighed. "I'm getting annoyed by all your chattering, but there's a strange comfort to it."

There was silence for a moment. "If I take you back to the surface," he said suddenly, "will you give your word to come and see me from time to time?"

Tora looked at him, nonplussed. "Of course I will, I suppose. That is, if you really want me to."

"Then," he said slowly, "you will only have to call my name when you want me. And I shall appear, or make a way for you."

Tora smiled, bemused. "You _are_ strange," she said. She was suddenly stymied for a moment. "But I…you want me to go already?"

Erik raised his eyes as if asking for patience in the nonexistent God. "You've been gone an hour, child. They'll miss you soon…the girls will tell stories..."

Tora pursed her eyebrows. "Oh, well. That's that, I suppose…but if I don't see you before it, will you come to see me at my next performance?"

The specter smiled. "I watch every performance, little fool. You should know that. Haven't you seen how Box Five is eternally empty, except for a wretchedly adventurous idiot here and there? Have you never noticed?"

Tora was taken aback. "Oh…I suppose…I hadn't really thought about it before. It just seemed to me that no one ever wanted it, which is strange because it's one of the best seats in the house…"

"That is my Box," he said, with a rather fiendish glint in his almost invisible eyes, "and woe betide the managers if they think they can sell my Box away!"

"Mssrs. Debienne and Poligny, you mean?" she asked, surprised. "Why ever would they not want to sell the Box?"

"Because, dear child, I have a leash on them, you see. They were taught a lesson not so very long ago. But perhaps you were not around to see."

"I did hear something about strangely they acted during the whole affair," she said slowly. "But I was in the wings at the time and didn't see a thing."

"Yes," he said, "Well. Enough about that. I shall tell you all my exploits another time. We'll go to the surface now, and you can take your place among all the other chattering, giggling little girls who think they're so sophisticated."

"And do you think me a chattering little girl?" she said indignantly. "Erik, I'm almost eighteen, you know."

He laughed more pleasantly. "When you get to be my age," he said darkly, with a trace of dry mirth, "You will understand these things, perhaps. Come!"

Tora had no choice. His voice was a chain upon her being, commanding her. She wondered, vaguely, if he had somewhere learnt the powers of hypnosis. She could not think of where he would have learned such a thing, but perhaps he had traveled, in his younger days? She didn't wish to pry at that particular moment, and let it pass. To the boat they went, and across the cold, blind lake in the darkness, with the warmth of Erik's body close as she sat among the cushions and he stood, poling them along.

Walking up what he termed the Communard's Road, for what seemed an age, she wondered, really wondered at length for the first time, what sort of person she'd gotten herself involved with. A strange, haunted man, and, by the looks of it, both a flagrant and a secretive being. Arrogant one moment, tormented the next, changing—with lightning speed—to quiet pensiveness. She had never seen his like before. It was difficult to know what to expect. She was, as it happened, more or less a rather woefully inexperienced innocent who, despite her steadily advancing teenage years, was yet untried in the realm of men and all their mysteries. None had paid her much attention as yet, preferring the more bawdy female members of the _corps_—or, if any _had_ paid her any heed, it was generally the wrong kind.

She was rather fed up with paunchy lechers and drunken young nobles giving her what she termed The Eye. Tora usually avoided those men and most others at all costs, if she could help it. She'd heard far too many sordid stories from the girls, and then there was Jolie, who had been forced behind a set piece by one of the stage hands, and four months later had been fired from the _corps_ because of her swelling belly.

Regarding Erik, however, there was a strange sort of excitement in her, inexplicable and overwhelming. She felt a quiver, a warm, feverish quiver that ran the entire length of her body, ending in a rush of blood to her cheeks when she realized that, holding her arm, he had felt her tremble.

_There simply must be more to him than meets the eye_, she thought. She was very sorry when they reached the corridors and he disappeared almost at once—as he did so, she grabbed at his sleeve to stop him from going, but he shook his head and melted into the shadows, a specter to the last.

* * *

As she slid between her sheets that night amidst the alternatingly quiet and raucous night-chatter of the ballet rats and the chorus girls, she tried to fathom what on earth had just gone on between herself and that dark, mysterious shadow of a man, but quickly yielded to soft, enticing slumber.

When she awoke the next morning, she wondered if the entire thing had been a dark and vibrant dream.


	2. Dark and Trembling Memory

Focus was a missing element the next morning. Several ballet rats voiced their opinion of "Margot's" awkward efforts. It wasn't like her to be so dreadfully out of step with the others, so clumsily out of sync. She had been tripping all over herself the entire day.

Rumors flew among the girls—she was sick, she was drunk, she had gone slightly mad. None of these seemed to concur with reality, however.

"What on earth do you suppose is the matter?" whispered little Jammes. "Do you suppose she has a beau?"

This idea, unlike the others, was met with great success, especially owing to her unexplained absence the previous night. Whispering and more wild rumors that could only be started by a troupe of young ladies in the midst of a gossip-filled Opera House traveled from stage to dormitories and back. It didn't take long for the word to be spread around the entire _corps de ballet._

Soon she was set upon by about fourteen or more detail-hungry little opera wenches who crowded about her shamelessly, wondering who shy Margot's "new beau" was.

They weren't that far off, reflected Tora bitterly, trying to escape from the screeching mass that surrounded her. They were like overgrown leeches, chattering and pulling at her, trying to glean any bits of tasty gossip that they could snatch.

She finally tore away from the lot of them and locked herself into one of the unused dressing-rooms. Relieved to finally be free of all those prattling little sparrows, she collapsed upon a rather ill-used chair, dusty and torn. It reminded her of the divan in the dream-cave.

Scowling to herself—_had _it been a dream?—Tora looked about her, seeing shadows everywhere, thrown into distortion by dim candlelight. She remembered the torch, flickering, as he led her down the Communard's Road…how the light had cast their own shadows into a strange kind of twisted diorama upon the wall. She had watched them, fascinated, feeling unease at every strange drip of water and echo of feet upon the floor. Their shoes had made an odd, wet _clacking_ sound as they made their way up the winding stair.

No. It could not have been real, could it? The whole thing seemed rather impossible. A man who lived underground, indeed! Tora grimaced. She had not known she had such a brilliant imagination.

And here she had thought for so long that she was growing up…still given to such childish tendencies. _No, I'm not grown-up at all,_ she thought blandly._ I'm a poor excuse for nearly eighteen, that's certain. _

All at once she remembered the song issuing from the nearly lipless mouth, and a shiver went through her. Warmth spread to her fingers, her toes, and she stretched herself out like a cat for a moment, enjoying the shuddery feeling of darkness that completely overshadowed her for a brief few seconds.

_Had_ he been real?

Tora had decided a few hours previously that she had dreamed the whole affair, but something nagged at her. Was it the dark patch of something akin to underground lake slime that she had inexplicably found on yesterday's dress, or…

Her fingers suddenly shot up to the painful bump on the side of her head. She had nearly forgotten. Such a headache all day long, and not once had she ever had the presence of mind to give it a source…

Tora groaned. Grown-up, indeed! When would she cease being so exasperatingly absent-minded?

Well, there was no doubt now. He had been real, unless she had hit her head on something. He had sung to her.

Tora remembered, with a degree of trepidation, her dreadful curiosity to see behind the spectral facsimile covering his face, shielding it from all eyes but his own. Such strangeness, such terrible majesty. He had held himself so oddly, standing up straight as a king one moment, slouching like a beggar the next, all due to his mood. And his voice…even while speaking, it was surely the most beautiful thing she had heard in all her days. A man with a voice like that could not possibly be as monstrous as he had described. She doubted whatever lay behind his mask was really so terrible at all, if indeed he existed elsewhere than in her own mind.

The way he moved, like a great cat…the way he had swayed back and forth at times. All this she remembered clearly, like crystal. It was far too vivid, too full of color and life and clarity, to have merely been a dream.

She shivered again. What _had_ he wanted with her, really? He had mentioned being lonely…did he have intentions toward her, or did he merely wish for company, for someone with which to converse? It had not seemed at the time as though his inclinations were particularly romantic…after all, he had struck her, and made some rather disparaging remarks. She was not at all sure she wished to see him again, no matter what his aims might be—but the delicious mystery of it all, the incomparable enigma, was almost too much to bear.

She would have to call to him, as he'd asked. That was the only way to prove or disprove this ridiculous theory. But not now. It was too soon, surely.

Wasn't it?

Her hands were shaking uncontrollably. Tora wrung at them in a feverish attempt to calm her nerves, but just the opposite occurred. Her skin felt cold, covered in gooseflesh, and the pain in her fingers from grasping so hard did nothing to calm her or clear her head, as she had hoped.

There was only one thing left to do, she supposed, although she hardly expected an answer of any kind. She half-thought that if he _did_ reply, she would scream out in fright. Still, she gathered her wits together and took a deep breath.

After a long moment, feeling incredibly foolish, she began to call out to him.

_Oh, this is dreadfully asinine,_ she thought, but for reasons she herself could hardly fathom, she kept calling.


	3. Scars and Wonderings

Erik closed his eyes. Voices swirled about his subconscious, clamoring to be awoken.

"No," Erik whispered. "No…"

But the voices persisted, and gradually, oh so slowly, the image formed, out of smoke and water in his mind, and he drifted and sank into a memory-trance.

* * *

"_Mother, let me kiss you. Let me kiss you, Mother!"_

_Small, thin hands reached out for her skirts, her apron covered in flour from baking bread. The boy-Erik liked how she smelled. Sometimes he sneaked into her bedroom and put his face against the downy comforter, trying to get a whiff of her scent. She had never caught him doing this. It was a secret._

_She certainly would never have let him put his face up to her apron, even though he wanted to, wanted to smell the flour and the dough and the cloth. She backed away, her eyes red around the edges. Why was she always so miserable? Was it all his fault, really, or was it something else?_

"_Erik…get away, get away, now! Don't come near Mother! And take this, you dreadful sprite…take it, put it on...! Oh, child, demonic child, what in hell's name possessed you? Your father…your father might see! Put it on, put it on, quickly!"_

_He could not understand it._

"_Mother…Mother…"_

"_No!" she groaned. "Oh, God, no!"_

_The mask lay on the floor where she had thrown it. The child did not like it. It was uncomfortable, and it itched. Why did his Mother insist that he wear it?_

"_Mother…Mother…why?"_

_And his mother wept and fled, leaving the child alone._

_And the child noticed something he had never seen before._ _It was lying on the nightstand, shiny and beckoning._

_The child saw that it was made of metal and glass, but he had never seen this sort of glass before. It seemed to reflect the things around it, the ceiling and the walls._

_The child stiffened, painfully thin, a quiver running through his body. He had never seen himself! Perhaps—_

_Slow, halting steps. He felt dizzy, a little wicked. __At length he__ reached the hand-held looking-glass, and then…reaching out his white little fingers… he picked it up._

_And looked._

_

* * *

  
_

"NO! Oh no, no, no! _DEAR GOD IN HEAVEN!_"

Erik wept upon the cushions. The image faded, to his humiliated relief. He had fallen into a dream, fallen into a memory that made him revert back over forty years. He wasn't certain of his own age; the years had so often blurred into a confusing procession of whirlwind torment and depression. There were times—more often than not, of late—when he thought himself vaguely content, times when he sat in his Box, closing his eyes and letting the sounds of _Carmen _or _Faust_ drift over his ears, or when he composed a particularly satisfying aria of his own at the great pipe organ and let it thunder as loudly as it pleased.

Times like this, however, horrific reversions, were rare these days—he wondered what on earth had brought it all back.

The cushions comforted his tear-streaked visage, soft and yielding against his tightly stretched skin. He reminded himself coldly that he did not believe in God. He also realized that he could smell Tora on the cushions.

How interesting.

He remembered, as though it were burned into him with a hot knife, the expression upon her face as she touched his mask, sitting where he was lying prostrate now.

"_Please, Erik…if we're friends now, I have a right…"_

He shook his head to clear it.

"_It is no monster I see…"_

She would learn, he reflected darkly. Oh, she would learn…

He wondered vaguely if she would actually wish to see him again. What about that blow he had given her? He had never, he reflected uncomfortably, hit a woman before, much less a slip of a girl like Tora.

Shame was not a word used often in his vocabulary. All the same, he felt a confusing twinge of what he recognized (becoming quite startled) as…guilt? "_Guilt!_" he spat suddenly. "For striking someone!"

Guilty! He, Erik? He who had murdered slaves and warriors for the entertainment of the little sultana and laughed along?

_Bon dieu_, he must be going mad.

The dancer was a confusing little fool, but perhaps she might prove an inexplicable comfort, after all. But, oh! If she ever saw his face…she was so young, so painfully young. He hardly knew what he might do if he could not abide her reaction to such a thing.

He stared at the ceiling and gave a long, terrible sigh. _I do not want to know,_ he thought. _I do not want to think._ Could he possibly abide her chatter if he brought her down here again? He was not in the mood for it. The thought of girlish prattle agonized him.

And then Erik remembered the sweeping, smoky trance-memory, and flinched violently, throwing one bony hand out as if to block the image. It disquieted him, this stiff fear, this unusual superstition. It was not like him to be jumping at shadows.

He was fearless (he told himself)! He had hardly any qualms. For his own horrific visage, however, he had nothing but indescribable loathing.

He _needed _her chatter, he reflected bitterly. He needed to connect with the human race, somehow. The image burned, and burned, and burned. His face inside his mother's mirror.

Erik's eyes squeezed shut, and he lithely rolled from the divan into a crouch, swiftly getting to his feet.

The cloak swished, and was gone from the hanging-hook to be placed on protruding shoulders. The mask was snatched from a corner and jammed rather unceremoniously onto the grimacing face. Had anyone peered inside his domain at that particular moment, they would have spied a panther of a man creeping from the secret place and hiding among the shadows, waiting for a glimpse of the one who refused to leave his mind. He had not long to wait.

He saw her run from a crowd of clamoring little _rats_ and fling herself behind the subsequently locked door of one of the more unoccupied dressing-rooms.

Erik waited.

And waited.

The troupe of girls clamored at the door, then slunk away one by one in defeat.

The last one, Sophie, ran after her fellow ballet rats, not wanting to be left behind. Erik chuckled horribly, remembering her outcry when she'd seen him last. Careful, now, or she might catch a glimpse of him again. _Although,_ he thought privately,_ it would be fiendishly amusing, to be sure. _To tell the truth, he was beginning to tire of all this. The idea that someone—namely, Tora—knew him for a man, really knew that he was nothing but an ordinary person in spite of extraordinary traits, was dreadfully exciting. It was an experience he'd not had in some time.

When little Sophie had gone, Erik heard a strange sigh. There was a long silence. And then, with a shiver of he knew not what—hope? Agony?—he heard his name being called, being summoned as if he were a genie.

It echoed inside the tiny dressing-room, reverberating through the walls. He felt it like the scraping of a string on a wound, raw and shocking. For a moment, he could scarcely move.

"Erik…Erik…Erik…"


	4. The Trap Door Lover

**A/N: Many thanks to Des Iries for suggesting that Erik would be wary. I took that suggestion to heart when I first wrote this chapter—without that, it wouldn't have worked nearly as well.**

**

* * *

  
**

The sweet sound of silence echoed in her ears. The chattering chorus girls had gone. It was not, however, entirely sweet. After all, he had not answered her.

She called the name twice over after the first few times, feeling increasingly inane. Of course he would not come. He was nowhere near. Had she really been such a fool as to believe his silly proclamation that whenever she called, he would hear?

The blood ran cold in her veins when she heard her own name.

That was no chorus girl.

* * *

Erik chuckled. No sound came from the dressing-room. None. She was frightened; she'd thought he would not come! It was a lucky chance that he had appeared upon the scene in time for her to call, he admitted, but then, she'd no knowledge of such a thing. He really ought to have thought of a more effective way, like a bell-pull, or a button which would emit a sound that only he would understand. Perhaps he would rig up a contraption, when they knew each other better—_if_ they ever got to know each other better.

He crept up, making sure there was nobody about, and then poised to knock on the door.

There was a long pause, while he reflected on his course. _I cannot simply knock on the door,_ he thought. _I ought to_ _do_ _it in rare old Opera Ghost style_. To do such an ordinary thing as enter by the door would undermine his credibility, make her fear him less. But wasn't that what he wanted?

He thought for a moment. _Better to let her wallow in doubt for a while,_ he decided_. _He did not trust her—not completely, not yet. He ought to continue to be someone she held in awe, in terror, even. He could not appear entirely ordinary, perhaps not even if they became intimate friends, which he sorely doubted at any rate. He could not—would not—let his defenses down after such a brief acquaintance.

The whole thing smacked of pride—for Erik was a proud and diffident man. He was possessive, awkward, shy, all the while bitterly guarding his most awful secret.

The mirror flashed in front of his eyes. His face inside his mother's mirror.

_No, _his mind whispered, _it most certainly will not do to let the girl see me be ordinary_.

There was a wall-hanging up ahead, a very old and worn sort that further concealed the hidden trap-door.

"I am a trap-door-lover," Erik whispered under his breath, while cheerfully humming a tune from _Faust_, looking to the left side and to the right. No one. No one at all.

Still humming to himself, Erik furtively lifted the wall hanging and slid beneath it, fingers gliding to the hidden spring.

The wall opened inward. Erik sprang into the wall-space, grinning, and pushed the lever on the other side.

The wall swung shut. The lithe shadow, gleaming-eyed, dreadfully thin, fervently hoped that no one had noticed his little escapade behind the wall hanging. There had been no-one about, but one could never be certain of these things. He had, after all, been careless in the past.

He turned to his right, felt with his long white fingers for the tiny depression that indicated yet another spring, and pressed upon it with his palm.

A small, circular slab of stone slid inward, allowing him to turn it slightly until there was a tiny wedge of light from the candlelit space in which Tora sat, eyes wide, staring at the door and at the ceiling.

She was looking anywhere but the left wall.

Erik rather prided himself on being the finest ventriloquist the world had ever seen. So many cheap shysters could be caught in the act, lips moving ever so slightly, voice projecting a few feet away and nothing more. Erik's lips did not even flutter. His voice was low, sensual, and it came from the candle directly to Tora's right, which was a considerable distance from where the voice originated.

"Tora…" It was something like a sing-song, almost mocking.

She shot upright. "What on earth…?"

Staring at the candle. It made him quiver with suppressed glee. How badly he wanted to laugh and laugh and laugh, but that would give the game away!

She was far away. He would draw her closer.

* * *

The table diagonally to her left began to sing her name.

"Tor…raaa…"

She trembled, feeling more angry than afraid. "Is that you, Erik?" she demanded, turning and walking to the table vibrating with song, "Are you hiding in the shadows?"

She accidentally knocked the table over with her knee, not looking where she was going. She had been staring into corners, half-expecting to see him crouching there, watching her.

Clutching at her knee, she heard muffled laughter. Coming from the wall.

"Aha!" she said indignantly. "_There _you are, my shadow! Come to me, why don't you, like a man instead of a ghost?"

His voice came from the table leg, scaring her out of her wits at the unexpected proximity.

"So the dancer wants to know more of Erik's secrets, does she?" the table leg droned lazily. Tora glanced suspiciously at the wall.

"Ah!" she said suddenly, pointing triumphantly at the sliver of darkness, "Hiding behind the wall after all!"

The sliver disappeared, confirming Tora's suspicions. There was silence for a moment.

Then his voice came from a wicker chair, slightly muffled, as though he had changed position.

"Come outside and we'll see."

Tora got to her feet, nursing her aching knee, walking slowly to the door, which she opened only to find an empty hall.

"Oh, come now, Erik," she spat. "Childish games don't…"

She gasped when he slid out from the shadows. His eyes gleamed in the gathering dark.

"Well," she breathed, "You certainly know how to make an entrance." Sarcasm mixed with fear, longing.

He stopped a few feet away. "Why did you call my name, Tora?" He sounded different, strange.

She found her voice enough to blurt, "Because I wanted to make sure…that you were…that you were…real." The words sounded silly even to her. Erik chuckled. Tora shivered, feeling the familiar chill course through her spine.

He paused, seemed to hesitate. "You don't begrudge me that blow, do you?"

Tora's fingers automatically flew to the bump on the side of her head. She winced, straightened, looked at the glowing points of light, struggled not to tremble again. They were unnerving, those freakish yellow orbs. Only seen in the darkness. She remembered the black holes of emptiness behind the mask in the horrid candlelit splendor of his underground kingdom.

Something in his stance suggested…she wasn't entirely sure. Not remorse, but something akin to a yearning for acceptance. Like two children being shy after they'd given each other a black eye in the schoolyard.

Tora sighed, and then spouted a half-truth, something she had sworn she'd never do. Why she did it, she couldn't say. "No, Erik. It doesn't matter. My headache has gone."

* * *

He stiffened, relaxed again.

Defenses be damned. Her eyes were limpid; they were swirling dark pools. He felt walls cracking and breaking inside of him even then. He felt like he did when he was ill. Vulnerable.

Well. He'd see about that.

* * *

"Come down with me," he said abruptly. "I want you to listen to my music." He sounded like a child showing a brand-new toy.

Tora smiled slightly, although his eyes unnerved her still. She held out a slightly trembling hand, at which he stared.

"You're frightened of me," he said. The tone did not sound as if he were particularly sorry for it. His eyes flashed, wickedly, mischievously.

She shivered again. "Oh…I don't know. A bit."

His chuckle turned into a strange sigh.

Tora grasped his fingers, shivering, and they went down together, into the murky black world of the cellars beneath the Opera House, wary of each other and of the unstable emotions which swirled between them.


	5. Meet The Siren

**A/N: To explain in advance why Erik poles the boat rather than rowing it as in the novel, I rather love the image of him looming above while he poles the boat across, which is so powerfully effective in ALW that I was more compelled to use it than the former.**

**

* * *

**

The darkness pressed upon her shoulders. The air was suffocating and still, and there was no sound except the soft fall of two pairs of footsteps and the dripping of dirty water.

It was eerily quiet.

"We are very near the lake," Erik said. His voice sounded strange in the stillness. It was as if the very sound of his words were disturbing the quiet of a tomb.

Tora strained her eyes, gripping Erik's fingers, but she could see almost nothing even with the help of Erik's small, flickering torch. The dimness, coupled with the eerie blue shimmering at intervals, frightened her beyond expression.

The torch went dead, with a frightening sizzle. Tora's head whipped about, eyes searching, blind with the sudden loss of light. Her feet shifted on the slimy surface of the shore—and then Erik, inexplicably it seemed, let go of her hand.

"Erik, what—OH!" Tora screamed as she lost her balance and tumbled directly into the lake.

The splash echoed, and slapped, and sloshed, and Tora moved around in the water frantically, trying to orient herself. In the ink of horrid blackness, it was absolutely impossible.

"Erik!" she yelled, "Erik!"

"Don't thrash about, girl, and for goodness' sake, don't roar like that," Erik's voice said calmly. "The Siren might hear you."

Tora gasped for breath. She was not the most excellent of swimmers. _Don't thrash about?_ she thought wildly. _I'm lucky if I even tread water for above three minutes. _She began to panic, her clothes making her flounder. _Why, why doesn't he come and get me? "_Erik!…"

It was dark. She couldn't see where was stone wall, where was ground, and where was water. All she knew was that she could _feel _the water, deep, swirling, pressing in eddies around her, as if...

_The Siren? _she thought suddenly, remembering his words with a chill that had nothing whatsoever to do with the water._ What on earth is the Siren? _

The water sloshed around her, wet noises reverberating. A splash. And then...a voice.

Tora could have sworn she heard faint, beautiful song coming from beneath the water. She turned in the water, listening. It was lovely, hypnotic—

"Wha…t?" she whispered, feeling dizzy, and sure she was already turning blue with cold. Her feet felt numb in her sodden shoes, dragging her down. Only by exhaustively kicking and moving her arms about did she keep herself afloat.

There was another splashing noise, faint and barely perceptible. It was far closer this time. Tora quavered.

"Erik?" she whispered, her voice echoing. "Is that y—"

She got no farther. Something cold, bony, slimy, grabbed her ankle, pulling her down. Tora screamed and screamed before she slid violently beneath the inky underground lake-waters.

* * *

Murk. No way to see, even if she opened her eyes, which were tightly shut to prevent the filthy water from contaminating them.

Encompassing her mind, filling her senses, was not only the horrific cold, but the thing, the horrible thing, holding on to her ankle in a death-grip, cutting off both her blood and her air as she struggled to get back to oxygen above, wanting to scream but knowing her lungs would only fill with water.

The air was going. Her skull felt as if it would burst. Her eyes opened at last, moved around in the black cold, but she could see nothing, nothing.

Bubbles burst from her mouth as air escaped in spurts. She was drowning, quickly.

The water roiled with their struggles. Suddenly the Siren—or whatever it was—let go, as if bored with its play, and Tora thrashed to the surface, gulping in great cool breaths of air, sweet, wonderful air.

"Erik…" she rasped, not knowing which way to go, "_Mon Dieu, _Erik…" Her voice was a whimper, a whisper in the dark. It echoed, ghost-like. Her ankle burned.

Suddenly she felt an arm around her waist and saw two yellow orbs and screamed again until she realized to whom the arm and the eyes belonged.

Tora's body sagged, feeling the aftermath of terror and relief. She could not speak for a moment, but found her voice at last. "The Siren?" she asked quietly. "Was…was that the Siren?"

He swam with quick, powerful strokes, though one arm held her up in the water. "Yes," he said strangely. "That was the Siren."

Tora shivered. "What…what on earth…"

Erik chuckled, as though he found the whole thing extraordinarily amusing. "I shall get us to land," he said. "And you needn't worry once we disembark—as long as we're in the boat, she shan't harm us."

Tora was a bit incredulous, the cold grip of suspicion making her want to wrench herself away from his grasp—but she didn't dare risk half-drowning herself again, and she hadn't any idea of the way back to shore.

"Erik…" she said, bile rising in her throat from anger, "It was you who dragged me down, wasn't it?" Her tone was biting, accusing. What was he playing at, pretending to be some sort of lake-monster?

"I told you, didn't I?" said Erik darkly. "It was the Siren. She lives here, has lived here for simply ages, ever since they built this place. She doesn't harm me. We have quite an understanding, the Siren and I…"

Tora was hard-pressed to believe a word of it, but images came to her mind, primeval and strange, of a great slimy thing with a woman's head and arms and the body of a sea-serpent, dripping hair coming out of the water like something out of a nightmare. "You…"

And then she remembered the singing. It had not been his voice, no—a woman's voice, high and sweet.

She shivered. Perhaps he really was speaking truth. He sounded so deadly sincere…dear Heavens, was such a thing possible?

* * *

Erik didn't dare laugh again for fear of giving himself away, but he smiled behind his confining mask.

He had taken note of that brash statement the previous night, the girl's quavering admission. "_I…I always had a bit of a fixation for the supernatural…"_

He was banking on it, in fact.

And now she would be frightened of the lake—she wouldn't attempt to cross it by herself, if ever she miraculously managed to make her way down here by herself—might even tell the story of the Siren to other foolhardy idiots who thought they might try their luck exploring in the deep dark. And to add to it all, he was her savior, her guardian. What blind trust would be placed in him now, what seeds for sowing?

Erik smiled grimly. What simple maneuvering.

Protecting her from the Siren. Erik fought to keep from chuckling at the thought. The Siren, indeed.

He felt her waist beneath his hand. She wore no corset. The slim curve felt strange to his touch, stirring him.

His mind wandered, calling up stolen images from his youth when he had accidentally seen a naked woman bathing in a pond, images from Persia when he had caught glimpses of brown, round breasts behind latticed screens. Feminine skin looked so smooth, so soft—practically begging to be caressed by willing fingers. And here was he, with his arm wrapped about this girl's lithe, slender frame. What would her skin look like, were he to peel away the wet layers of her clothing once they reached dry land?

Erik shivered feverishly, pushing the thought away. It echoed.

_Supple flesh, lovely, smooth, yielding skin—young, so young, so ripe—beneath her dress, beneath my fingers. One thin layer of separation—no laces, no whale-bone contraptions. So easily it could be torn away, and here in the dark, in the empty, dripping bowels of this place, no-one could hear her screams._

Quickly, he grabbed for the stone bank where the boat was docked, lifted her up and onto the damp and solid surface. He felt the danger rising in him, felt it even though the physical manifestation of his arousal was sluggish, held back by the icy temperature of the water. He didn't want this, not really, not here and now. Perhaps another time, another way…besides, she hardly deserved to be depravedly handled as repayment for her surprisingly tolerant nature. She did not constantly shrink from him or treat him with disdain or disgust, as others had—there was, perhaps, an infinitesimal ember of hope which whispered that she might come, in time, to embrace him herself. The notion seemed impractical, implausible, but nonetheless vaguely reasonable.

She shivered with cold. He rolled out of the water and onto his feet, and lifted her bodily into the boat.

* * *

Feeling slightly nonplussed, Tora sank into the cushions, soaking them.

"Hurry," she whispered. "I might not have drowned, but I might freeze. We both might, for that matter."

"I don't think so," he said amiably. "We shall be at my house in no time—and besides, the cold does not bother me in the slightest. I'm rather immune, you know…" Whether he was serious or not, she hardly cared to attempt to discern—she wanted only to be away from here as quickly as possible, and was beginning to think herself mad for ever having put herself in this position—alone with a strange man in the dark, having told no-one where she was going or who she was with.

He took the long pole, and pushed off, propelling them along slowly. The Siren did not sing; the waters remained quiet. Tora could not shake her suspicions, could not silence the deafening thunder of her imaginings.

As if reading her very thoughts, the woman's voice sang low and soft to the left, over in the distance. There were three notes, long and haunting in their beauty.

She shivered uncontrollably. "Erik…" she whispered. "Erik…get us away from here, quickly, please…" Still, she did not quite believe. She remembered the table leg.

And that grip around her ankle…it had felt remarkably like his grip on her arm or her hand when he was leading her down, albeit much more forceful than either. Bony fingers. She gazed up at his looming form, barely moving as he poled them across.

"It gets deeper over there," he said, pointing to where the song had been coming from. "That's where you got yourself out to, thrashing around like a madwoman and yelling."

Tora shivered. She had wondered how the water could be so deep and yet still allow his pole to propel them along.

"If you don't disturb the Siren," he said coolly, "she will not disturb you. She is quite used to me…that is why she does not upset the boat, nor interfered with my rescue of you from the deep water."

Tora didn't say a word.

The boat bumped against the far side, and Erik sprang out, offering her his hand. She took it gingerly, still wondering whether or not he had tried to drown her (_If it was him, it wasn't quite a real attempt at drowning_, whispered her mind. _The grip let go, remember?_), shivering against the cold and her ruined dress.

There was no noise, save for the dripping of water and the soft sound of their footsteps as they made their way into his abode.


	6. When A Woman Has Seen Me

**A/N: In response to a few questions as to why the Siren incident occurred, consider the Angel of Music deception of Christine—which is along the same lines, really, although less dramatic. It was explained a bit more in-depth last chapter when Erik ruminated about the possible effects of the Siren deception.**

* * *

Tora was wet and shivering. Erik tried not to look at her. After all, she wasn't wearing a corset and as a result, the soaked condition of her clothes lent her a rather…scantily clad appearance. Being white—and very wet—the dress had become extremely transparent, a fact which seemed, for the moment, to escape Tora entirely.

He took her hand, giving a mighty effort to stare in the opposite direction.

"Here…you can stay here, in the Louis-Philippe room…while I go out and buy you some clothes…you can't stay in those sopping wet things."

Tora giggled, feeling in shock. "You don't have to…"

"Of course I have to." Erik gave her a fleeting glance and realized that his cheeks were becoming unbearably warm. _A good thing I have to wear this dreadful piece of dreary confinement_, he reflected wryly. _It wouldn't do to let her see me blush._

He struggled mightily not to stare. Tora must have sensed the reason for his shyness all of a sudden, for she gasped and folded her arms over her chest, looking about for a blanket.

Erik pointed. Tora grabbed it off the bed and put it over herself, her shivering ceasing a little with the warmth.

Erik didn't know whether to be disappointed or relieved. _Stop that_, he mind-whispered. _You know perfectly well she'd never want you anyway. Even if she did, and if she gave you her body without making you take off this monstrous thing, she'd rip it off herself one day or another from sheer curiosity. And wouldn't those revolted screams be..._

_Don't think of it, don't think, _whispered the voice of reason.

But the voice of humiliation would not be denied.

_Do you remember the girl…the nubile, slim girl…the one in that cursed Shah's harem?_

Erik shuddered.

He left, quickly. His hands were shaking so much he feared they'd seize her of their own will if he stayed a moment longer.

Tora was a little bemused at his sudden exit, but sank down on the bed gratefully.

She was frightened of this place, not of this room _per se_, but of the entire underground kingdom, so dark and dreary and full of Sirens…

She laughed, suddenly. _I must be getting tired, spouting this incoherent nonsense to myself. Even if there is a Siren, there's only one._

She shivered, pulling the blanket closer around her shoulders.

He was gone a long time. Tora reflected vaguely that she would probably have been missed by now in the dormitories. All the chattering little chorus girls, all the ballet rats would be on fire from their previous gossip and wonder where on earth she'd gone. And then, she reflected, they'd probably be scandalized when one of them came up with the not-far-off theory that perhaps Margot had gone off with her beau! And they would be on fire with it and say yes, yes, Margot has gone off with her beau and will not be back until the morning.

Tora sighed.

"Predictable, boring little sparrows," she muttered. "Always on fire with their silly gossip. La Sorelli should know better than to encourage such nonsense."

Reclining on the bed, wrapped in her blanket, Tora waited.

"Buying me dresses," she said giddily. "No one ever did such things…"

* * *

Erik walked the streets, checking every so often to make sure that his realistic pasteboard nose was in place, searching for a shop in which he could buy feminine clothing for Tora's slight little figure. 

He paused in front of a small boutique sporting the sign _La Belle Femme_, shrugged, and went inside awkwardly.

The plump female storekeeper stared at him. Owing no doubt to his rather spectral and ghastly appearance, Erik reflected grimly. He was used to such stares. They did not hurt him anymore, though sometimes they stung.

He looked around, wondering what on earth he'd gotten himself into. He knew nothing of women's clothing. His own clothes were elegant and tasteful, though it was difficult to find fine clothes that were tall and yet narrow enough to fit his skeletal frame.

He heard rather than saw the storekeeper creep up behind him. "_Perdonne-moi, monsieur_," she said quietly. "What does your lady look like? Her build, her coloring? I can help you find something that will suit her exactly."

Erik grunted. He didn't need any help.

Yes, he did.

He sighed in frustration. How he hated talking to people, any people besides Tora, of course. And the Persian, but that was another matter entirely. So was toying with Madame Giry, who thought him nothing more than a voice.

"Small," he said vaguely. "Very slight. Long legs, dancer's legs. Her complexion is fair, although not perfectly so. She comes up to—" he indicated a point on his chest.

"And her hair, _monsieur_? That's very important."

"Long," he said, uncertain as to why that was important.

The plump little woman stifled a grin. "The…the color, _monsieur_. Of her hair." She let out a short laugh before smothering it at once.

Whenever Erik was made to feel like a fool, anger inevitably followed. Just in time, he remembered what he was here for in the first place.

A good thing. The storekeeper had nearly had her neck broken.

He sighed, forcing the bile born of rage in his throat back down into his stomach.

"Brown," he said, although he reflected that such a description didn't quite do it justice. The storekeeper raised an eyebrow. Erik sighed again. "Chestnut, I suppose."

The little storekeeper smiled, having no idea how close to death she'd previously come. "Ah. One moment." She disappeared into the back room, going through boxes.

Erik stood, feeling out of place. A very wealthy-looking woman walked in, giving him an odd sort of look.

Erik looked away.

The woman looked both miffed and puzzled.

In a moment, the plump little storekeeper walked back out. "I just realized something, _monsieur_—I forgot her eyes. The color of her eyes."

"Brown. Golden flecks. Much darker than her hair," he said. The storekeeper nodded and walked back into the little room.

The woman was still looking at him.

Erik was beginning to lose patience. He had half a mind to rip off his false nose and give the woman the fright of her life.

Deciding against it (although the thought made him smile grimly), he instead turned to look at her, quite intensely in fact.

The woman quailed a bit.

"You shouldn't stare at people so, Madame," he said flippantly. "It might have supremely negative effects on your...health." The last word he breathed quite dangerously.

The woman shot him one last glance and walked imperiously, though rather nervously, he thought, to a row of evening gowns, pretending to look at them.

Erik sighed again, wishing he had his Punjab lasso with him, but then again, he supposed that wouldn't do at all.

The plump little storekeeper waddled back out, holding four dresses over her arm.

"Will these do, _monsieur_?"

Erik looked at them, fingering the satin and lacework. People would talk if she walked about in dresses such as these. But to what end? She'd be admired, envied. People would say she had a beau.

Erik smiled at the thought. He quickly smothered it, however, and the smile faded, though a shadow of it lingered on his almost-lips.

"These will do just fine," he said impatiently, feeling the wealthy woman's eyes on his back as the storekeeper put the dresses in their boxes. "How much?"

She told him. Erik absently handed over the bills and quickly walked out of the store, not wanting to get any angrier than he already was.

The wealthy woman followed him. Erik clenched his fists, wishing he had his Punjab lasso for the hundredth time in as many seconds.

He turned around suddenly, staring her down. The woman wilted a bit.

"Something you wanted?" he hissed. The woman straightened, speaking in heavily accented French. Her accent nagged at him, but he was in too much of a supremely annoyed hurry to place it in any particular country, although...

She interrupted his thoughts. "You look like somebody I once knew in…" she began.

Erik barked with laughter. "Indeed. You will forgive me, madame, but that you would know me from anywhere is, by all accounts, quite preposterous. I haven't known many women, you see, and..."

"But..." she began, interrupting him. "In..."

"I have no time, madame," he snapped. "You have mistaken me for someone else."

He abruptly turned on his heel, and walked away, dismissing her completely.

He did not look back to see if she was following him. He could have cared less.

_If she follows me again_, he promised himself grimly, _I won't need my lasso. My hands will serve to strangle the life from her body._

Of course he did not admit to himself that he would never carry out such an empty threat. A man, perhaps, but never a woman. He had not yet sunk so low as that.

He looked back once, in spite of himself, to see if she really was following him. She was not. She was standing there in the dirty street, looking lost and familiar. Erik could have sworn he too had seen her before, but could not think of where.

_Silly imaginings_, he thought. _Induced by her bold assertion that she had seen me in…where? She never said, did she? I never gave her the chance._

He shrugged.

Tora was waiting.

_Let her wait. Go back and strangle that wealthy whore._

Erik was appalled.

_Never._

His demon chuckled. _You will. Someday. You'll kill a woman and she'll die like all the others, all those slaves and warriors in Mazenderan. While the little sultana laughed and clapped her hands, so thrilled at your savage expertise…_

Erik shook his head to clear it, ripping his false nose off and stuffing it in his pocket.

_Never. Never, never, never._

He stalked back inside the Opera House through the Rue Scribe entrance, taking his mask from his pocket and shoving it back on, looking behind him, seeing no one.

Only he had the key to unlock the huge iron bars. He took it from its box inside his room whenever he went out and kept it hidden in his waistcoat always.

He remembered making it, pouring the lead. Half the underground passages in the Opera Garnier had been built by him, years ago when he was one of the contractors under Garnier himself—most of it during the Paris siege when no one else knew anyone was working on the building, for all work had been officially halted, put on hold until after the war.

Shaking such thoughts from his mind—he never was one to dwell on the past, if he could help it, for more often than not it would stir up far more painful images—he balanced like a tightrope walker on the shallow stone ledge on the one side of the Rue Scribe, holding to the wall for support.

* * *

Tora waited impatiently. He had been gone for what seemed an age. She had bored herself silly with walking about the room and exploring its lavish bathroom. She had even taken a cold bath—for she could find nowhere to heat the water—to rid herself of the awful slimy feeling that had coated her ever since she had fallen into the lake. 

Wrapped in nothing but the blanket, she poked her head out of the Louis-Philippe room, calling, "Erik!" to make sure he was not there.

Satisfied that he was not, she began exploring the lair, exiting the drawing-room and peering into a large, black-hung bedroom of sorts.

There was an organ on the far side. Tora stepped forward, intending to try her hand at it, when the object in the middle of the room made her stop cold.

Red brocade draperies, a canopy. And beneath…

Tora felt like vomiting. Images came tumbling back to her unbidden, like the whisper of spirits or the flow of a stream.

* * *

_The woman was beautiful, white. Sleeping._

_No. Not sleeping. Dead, someone said._

"_What does it mean to be dead?" whispered the chubby, chestnut-haired child. "It means," said the grown-up person, " that she is gone and she shan't come back."_

_But that was impossible. Mother always came back._

_Always, when she went out, she said, "I'll come back, sweeting." And she always had. _

_She started coughing when the child was four. By the time she was slightly past five, Mother went to sleep one day and she hadn't woken up._

_The child tried to wake her up. She shook her, she patted her cheeks. She even tickled her. Mother love-hated to be tickled. She would always shriek with laughter, unable to hold still, and she'd return the favor most willingly._

_It was when Mother did not even bat her eyelashes that the child knew something was terribly, terribly wrong. Mother was sick, sicker than ever, so sick she couldn't even move or speak! _

_And the child ran from house to house, crying for help for poor sick Mother, and people came, and she was dragged away screaming, screaming for her mother._

_The next time she saw her mother, she was in that oddly-shaped box, so angular and foreboding, like something out of a nightmare-tale. Mother looked beautiful, of course, but she was still sleeping. Hadn't anybody been able to wake her?_

_The child asked, and asked, and was treated with annoyance. "Someone needs to put that child in the orphanage," said one particularly pompous old woman. "She's far too common and unruly for any one of us to raise. Just look at how she runs about. The manners of a wildcat. I, for one, never had children. Such little beasts. It's just simply not worth the trouble."_

"_She's only five years of age," said a younger, well-meaning woman. "So young. It's terrible that she lost her mother."_

_Lost? She had not lost her mother. Lost was when you couldn't find something, when you couldn't hold or touch or see or smell it. Her mother was here. She could see her, she could touch her. To prove it, she stretched out one chubby hand._

_The room echoed with gasps of horror. "No, no, child, you must never do that," said another grown-up person. "It's disrespectful to the dead."_

_The child did not know what dead meant. She asked. And that was when the grown-up told her that Mother was never coming back._

_What did she mean? Mother was here, wasn't she?_

"_Her spirit, her soul," said the grown-up. "It is gone. The thing that used to laugh and play with you is quite gone. That is what it means to be dead. Mother's soul is in heaven." The person smiled benevolently, as if this were a good thing._

_The child did not know where heaven was, did not think to ask, and was so upset that she ran from the church. Nobody could catch her. She ran until her breath was gone. _

_And then she saw the boat, the lovely boat that she'd seen sometimes and always wanted to explore. She crept aboard and hid in the hold, staring. Perhaps the boat would go to heaven._

* * *

Tora was bent over on her knees in the doorway, frozen, horrified. She realized that she had vomited all over Erik's floor. She didn't care. She wanted to run, run like she had that day, as fast as she could, away, away, away. 

She struggled to her feet, turned and stumbled right into Erik, making boxes fly everywhere.

Eyes as wide as saucers, she fought not to cry. Reality had come crashing back, but the memory of her mother in the coffin, so long repressed, was fading slower than she would have liked.

Erik stared at her, the way he had been staring at her when she was all wet.

Tora realized with a flush of horrified embarrassment that she was wearing nothing but a blanket wrapped around her naked form, her arms and shoulders bare, and dashed back into the Louis-Philippe room with all the speed she could muster, blushing furiously and cursing herself.

Erik shuffled his feet outside the open door, valiantly looking the other way. This was almost worse than the soaked white dress.

"I…ah…" he glanced at her and looked away quickly—"I…bought you…dresses."

The words sounded stupid, dull. He bit his tongue until it ached, drawing blood.

"Thank you," she whispered, holding out her arms for the boxes.

Erik looked at her stupidly, mouth agape. And then—suddenly realizing with a humiliating jolt that it was the boxes and not he that she was holding out her arms for—he quickly gathered them up and dropped them on the floor, closing the door as if it burned him.

Tora picked up the boxes, her cheeks burning. She lifted the dresses out, one by one, embarrassment turning quickly to wonder.

"Erik!" she exclaimed gleefully. "Oh, Erik!" She put the dark pink one on dreamily, swirling around in a flurry of skirts.

Bursting out of the room, she flung her arms around him, catching him so off guard that for a moment he fumbled for his Punjab lasso.

"Oh, Erik…" she said. "You're wonderful."

Erik was blushing again beneath his mask. "Wonderful, mademoiselle?" he said slowly. "If you knew me better, perhaps you wouldn't think so."

He was painfully aware of the unfamiliar contact of her exuberant embrace. No one had ever done this to him before. It felt extraordinarily strange.

She was about to kiss him on the cheek when she remembered the mask.

Tora curled her fingers underneath before he realized what she was doing and lifted it off.

There was a moment of horrified silence between the two of them. Tora's mouth opened.

Erik felt numb. _You imagined she'd do it, and she did. Blind prophetic surety. And now the nightmare has come true. She's seen you. And now…what?_

The rage did not come. It lay dormant, waiting for her scream. It would come, and then the rage would inevitably follow.

The scream did not come.

Tora collapsed in a dead faint.

Erik shoved his mask back on, tears pouring unbidden from his burning eyes, while his hands found her limp form and picked her up and carried her back to the Louis-Philippe room, where he dumped her unceremoniously on the bed, running to his own bedroom and pounding furiously on the organ keys, playing and playing at _Don Juan Triumphant_, the passion and horror evident in every pounding stroke.

Night fell.

Tora drifted from her faint into a deep, almost dreamless sleep, where visions of her dead mother and Erik's corpse-face whirled and whirled around her mind like the frenzied pounding of Erik's fingers on the keys of his beloved, crashing organ through the whole dark, fiery night.

* * *


	7. Broken and Irreparable

**A/N: For any who were confused at what exactly Tora saw beneath the drapery, I suggest you read Leroux's novel...but if you're quite adamant, I shall give in and tell you that it was none other than the infamous sleeping-coffin. Which, common with most post-traumatic stress symptoms, immediately triggered a memory of a similar shape.**

**As for the unmasking scene, I myself, did I not have a good idea of what to expect, would be initially and visibly repulsed in one way or another to suddenly see Erik's "death's-head", so I wrote Tora's reaction accordingly. Many like to think that at least one girl in the world would be instantly accepting and not recoil one bit (and indeed, that is the significant mark of not a few Mary-Sues), but the truth is, anyone at first would be at least a little horror-stricken, if not a lot. It's simply human nature.**

* * *

Death was in the form of a bare white skeleton, dancing and laughing, taking her mother by the hand and leading her away, both of them whirling and leaping in wild abandonment. As Tora watched, they both danced, circled and whirled…and, to her horror, her mother's skin split and fell away, rotting, and the skeleton that was Death grew new skin, and as it worked its way up to the skull, forming an awful face, she realized with a cry that it was Erik.

She woke screaming so loudly that had any others been there to hear, she might have been mistaken for the victim of a most violent murder.

* * *

He heard her, where he had slumped over the organ, exhausted. No sleep had come to his weary, burning eyes, so full of rage and passion and aching hate. 

The shadow stayed exactly where he was, unmoving. What did he care for her screams? She was probably remembering _him_.

Erik felt as if he had taken a knife and ripped at his insides, breaking bones and tearing muscle with its savage keen edge.

Giving a sob and a groan of despair, he slumped once more, giving ominous and discordant voice to the keys that yielded beneath his emaciated form.

"Damn her…damn her…"

The whisper was like a sob in the stillness, a long and drawn-out sigh of weeping.

The tears trickled down his exposed and uneven skin, stretched so tightly across his bones. He gritted his teeth. He abhorred weeping. It made him feel weak.

Got to his feet, looked at the mask still lying on the floor. Making a noise of displeasure, he grabbed the awful thing and shoved it back onto his face, stalking out the open door and flinging Tora's door wide open.

He was both satisfied and wretchedly dismayed to see her shrink back, eyes wide, looking at the expressionless mask.

"You little liar," he breathed.

Her fingers spasmed and clutched at the sides of the bed.

"I told you, didn't I, you miserable little gutter-child? I TOLD YOU! AND _WHAT DID YOU SAY?_" he roared.

Tora made a small, gasping noise in the back of her throat.

He slumped, leaning with one hand against the doorjamb, and then he slid back upright, eyes blazing in their awful yellow fury. "_Never_. That's what you said, so piously, so self-righteously! _Never_, you said, when I told you that you'd fear me, hate me, turn from me…Now, you shrink back as if I am a monster—and I am! The worst sort! I am a ghoul, a demon, a god-awful corpse!" He put a hand to his eyes, sliding limply down the floor, where he wept like a child.

Tora felt overwhelmed by shame, fear, and sorrow.

"Erik…" she whispered.

He looked up, eyes blazing in the darkness of the doorway. _Oh, you insufferable, prying girl-child… _Tears trickled out from under his mask.

Instinctively, Tora nearly went to him, but memory made her stop in mid-stretch. Her arms fell limply at her sides. She felt awful for feeling such restraint. But he…he…

Memory assaulted her. She shuddered.

Erik got up and turned abruptly on his heel, hiding more childish tears.

Tora felt a wave of…something. Compassion? Pity? More than that, surely…

But she was remembering that awful hole—the black pit where his nose should be—the deep-set, burning eyes, the taut skin stretched so tightly over his face that she wondered if it hurt him.

Skin like a corpse, like a corpse! And she had not believed him, had considered herself so above anything that could possibly be underneath his hiding-place for his face, had thought that it could not possibly be as bad as he described.

_It was worse._

Tora shuddered again. _And am I so callous that I am now aloof and horrified where once I couldn't wait to kiss that awful cheek? But I didn't know it was awful then…oh, God. WHAT AM I?…_

Erik was gripping the doorjamb tightly. He let go abruptly and walked away, looking for all the world like a shadow flitting along the wall.

Tora could not move. She was frozen, blind.

_WHAT AM I_?

The burning, beating query would not fade.

_WHAT AM I_?

She collapsed into her pillow, feeling weak.

Erik reappeared in the doorway, making her jump. "I am going to take you back to the surface now…so you'd best take your dresses—if you want to keep them—and follow me. Now."

His fingernails left marks in the doorjamb when he let go.

Tora, numb all over, left her bed slowly, gathering up the boxes and looking at Erik's outstretched hand as if it were that of the Siren.

Erik was about to drop his hand when, to his surprise, he felt her fingers grasp it gingerly.

Tora did not look at him. The three remaining dresses were draped over her other arm, looking for all the world like dead satin animals.

Erik sighed, feeling impossibly old, and led her to the boat, where he poled them across the underground lake quickly, not bothering to pull any of his Siren tricks.

When they reached the surface, he dropped her hand and was about to go when she grasped his arm.

Fighting the urge to pull away and preserve his already wounded pride, he turned around slowly, mentally daring her to say something about the horrific previous night. Anything. He would kill her if she tried.

No, he wouldn't. What a ridiculous thing to imagine.

Tora appeared lost for words. They stood there for a moment, while Tora racked her brains for something, anything to say to make up for…

Somehow, she knew "I'm sorry" would be the daftest understatement of the nineteenth century.

"Oh, Erik," she said. "Would it do any good to…apolog—"

"No." he said.

"But…" she began.

Erik sighed. "At least you haven't called me 'monster'. That certainly soothes me." His voice dripped with sarcasm.

"You aren't. A monster, I mean." she said.

"You say that to appease me," he said. "It's perfectly plain that you think me a horrid, hideous—"

"I—" she interrupted.

"Be quiet," Erik snapped. Tora let go of his arm, looking both maddened and disquieted.

"Will you ever forgive me, Erik?" she asked quietly.

Erik towered over her. "Forgive you?" he asked thunderously. "I may…I may. Then again, I may not."

Tora rolled her eyes. "Don't be so imperious," she said impatiently. "Do you…_do you_ forgive me or not?"

Erik would have laughed had he not remembered the look of horror on her face when she removed his mask. Just sitting there, staring, staring, mouth open, horrified….the awful little wench.

He gritted his teeth, his demeanor changing swiftly. "The little dancer would do better to ask Erik _that_ when he is in a far more gracious mood…I must go now…Excuse me, my dear…" The words _Excuse me _and _my dear_ were uttered even more mockingly than when he had sarcastically thanked her for not calling him monster.

And with that, he swished his cape and disappeared into the shadows like a wraith.

Tora looked at the spot where he had melted into the darkness, mouth gaping like a fish. "Erik…?"

"Who is Erik?" asked the vibrant little voice of a chorus girl, coming up at her elbow.

Tora jumped. "S…Sophie? I…"

The little chorus girl stared at Tora's clothing. "New dresses? _Four_ new dresses?"

Tora looked at the dresses, back at Sophie, her mouth still open, at a loss to explain.

Sophie clapped her hands, laughing. "Why…why…you have a beau! They all talked about it…and I didn't believe! They were all of them right, after all, weren't they, Margot?"

And with that, Sophie took off down the hall, bouncing up and down and chanting, "A beau…a beau…Margot has a beau..."

Tora looked after her in disgust. Now the whole troupe would be after her again. She dashed off to the dormitories quickly to change. With any luck, they'd all be on the stage getting ready to rehearse and she could grab a few moments of peace before the inevitable throng assailed her for "details."

* * *

Underground, Erik was composing. _Don Juan Triumphant _was aside, lying on the floor in a jumbled heap, temporarily forgotten. 

This was new, this piece…here…soft, trilling…the flute…and here…one aching, sorrowful violin…and here, the cello, deep and sonorous…and here, the piano pounding away in a frenzy…

Lost in the memory of Tora's dark eyes, Erik kept composing until he collapsed from exhaustion.

* * *


	8. It All Goes Wrong Again

**A/N: When I first wrote this chapter, my darling guinea pig had just died traumatically a week before. I felt exactly like Tibby from _The Sisterhood of The Traveling Pants,_ though thankfully I never felt the urge to put her poor little body in a paper bag in the freezer.**

**Thanks to all my dear readers who offered much-needed sympathy and support during that very trying period.**

* * *

Erik sat alone, staring at the pages he had written, the music he'd composed.

Memory assaulted like a wave, a dark, cruel wave, another mother-memory, memory of….

* * *

_Eyeholes were so terribly unsuited for seeing. They formed a black ring around his eyesight. There just wasn't enough room._

_He sighed, ready to take it off, when his mother entered the room. The boy-child took his hand away from the confining facial prison, leaving it where it sat upon his visage._

_He stared at her. _

"_Do you love me, Mother?"_

_The woman stared at her child, so quickly grown into a little man. Eight, now, and growing like a weed. Thin and lanky and not eating nearly enough._

_It had been two years since the mirror._

_The eyes burned. The woman put a hand to her chest, breathing a little more heavily, terrified by her child's eyes._

_The eyes burned._

"_Do you love me, Mother?"_

_The woman staggered under the eyes. They were not a child's eyes._

"_You stare at me like a demon! Don't!"_

_Her voice was shrill, unnatural. She usually sounded so soft and melodious._

_Hot tears squeezed out from under the mask._

_The words were more choked this time._

"_Do you love me, Mother?"_

_The woman buried her face in her hands and wept against the doorjamb, shoulders quivering._

_The boy-child felt both ashamed and viciously satisfied to cause his mother pain._

_But the shame and heartbreak won out. He was a child, after all. _

"_Mother…" Soft, childish voice. Not the demon of a moment ago._

"_Mother?"_

_She did not move._

_He came to her very slowly, and then, boldly, childishly, hugged her around her waist. _

_The woman flinched._

_The child persisted. He did not let go. _

_And slowly, oh, so slowly, he felt her arm begin to bend around his shoulders, and the flutter of cruel, aching hope began to burn inside his small chest…and…and…_

_She disentangled herself. Gently, but disentangled him nonetheless._

_And as the boy-child stood there, feeling angry, empty, broken, his mother said, _

"_Love you?…oh…how I wish I could."_

_And with that, the child was left standing ugly and alone, worthless flotsam in an endless sea of floating hate._

* * *

Tora went through her steps automatically, like a possessed thing who has no soul and no mind. 

The image of Erik would not fade. Would not.

There was a horror in her mind and a pain tugging at her heart, and with it all she felt utterly and completely lost.

_What am I?_

She tripped, stumbled, which in turn caused little Sophie to cry out and trip herself up amongst the other girls. Mass domino-effect ensued.

Through it all, Tora heard the enraged cry of the ballet mistress, and sped off to the safety of the halls through the chaotic mass of ballet rats and chorus girls.

* * *

Erik ran his fingers through what little hair he had. 

He was beating out the thoughts of his mother, trying to quell the reckless, burning hate.

For he both hated and loved his mother.

He had loved her beauty. Her pain.

He utterly hated and despised her selfishness. She had committed a near-unforgivable sacrilege against the bond between mother and child. _Had _she loved him? He had never quite been sure that she had lied.

The tears came again…oh, they never let him down.

Gritting his teeth, trying not to remember, to prevent the slow backward slip away from reality, and yet trying to escape the pain of the moment, the memory of Tora's horror, he felt himself begin to go utterly, thoroughly, and inescapably mad.

* * *

Tora felt herself fleeing, as if compelled, down the Communist's road, past the men shoveling coal and looking like red demons in the flickering light, running through the blackness with a stolen torch in her hand and wetness on her cheeks. 

Here…the lake…

She steeled herself against the memory and called out his name, quivering, frightened, but determined to right herself, to end her moral inner torment.

* * *

Erik slumped in a heap in the drawing-room, sighing his most terrible and heartrending sighs, clutching at the walls in a paroxysm of tumbling, horrid emotions, when he could have sworn…the bell had rung…and there was somebody…. 

Cursing to himself, he went out into the blackness, ready to slip into the water and drown whichever poor fool had stumbled upon his underground domain—

"Erik…"

Stopped, feeling numb, feeling cold. Oh, what burning hatred and darkness coursed through his veins at this very moment! He could get his revenge, now…kill her as she had destroyed him…

The darkness lost.

"Go away!" he yelled, sobbing. "Tora, get away!"

He heard her give a cry at the heartrending sound of his voice, and the sound of water sloshing. She was getting in the boat.

"No!" he roared. "Get out of it! Now! I don't want you here! Not now, not ever again!"

He could feel the painful pause, like the absence of wind on a gusty day, when the swirling leaves suddenly go slack, and flutter limply, crackling under human feet.

There was no sound. Erik thought he might go mad with the silence, but he could not move or speak.

And then he heard the very distinct sound of the boat sloshing again, and small footsteps walking away, and he did not know whether to sigh with relief or weep with his pain.

He swirled around and was about to run back inside and console himself with a bottle—two bottles, maybe—of chardonnay, to drown himself in wine, when he heard footsteps running towards the boat again.

"I don't care, Erik! I don't even care about the Siren! I'm coming, do you hear? I…Kill me if you dare!"

And with that, he heard the boat slosh, and the sound of the pole swishing and swirling through the water, and he wanted to chuckle, but he wanted to scream.

As it happened, he did neither. He simply waited.

Waited.

Ah, God, the exquisite torture of madness and longing.

And then Tora leapt out of the boat, and stopped dead when she saw his black shape outlined in the frame of the entrance, staring at her with the yellow-black pits of eyes through the darkness of his mask. This one was black instead of white. It made him look less corpse-like, but more frightening.

_Strange how he looks so darkly appealing…standing there…the lithe figure leaning arrogantly against the door…dark foreboding incarnate, but oh, look how he's cutting such an elegant, mysterious, sensual figure…_

Tora shook herself. She was close to losing her head completely.

"E..ri..k?" she whispered. "You—"

"I'm losing patience with you," he said softly. "I'd half a mind to kill you when you were out there, you know. And I could have done it!—" he snapped his fingers. "—like that! Do you hear? Like that! Are you so eager to come and visit me inside my dreary abode now?"

Tora took a step backward. Unfortunately, there was only one step's distance between her and the lake.

Erik was startled by the splash and Tora's sudden disappearance, and would have laughed if she had come up out of the water.

Which she didn't.

Bubbles rose, one, two, three. The water at the entrance was not deep. She must have struck her head on the stone.

But why wasn't she rising?

Erik sighed, exasperated at having to perform an unplanned rescue, and splashed into the water, groping for her. He pulled at her body, caught by her dress on a snag of protruding stone underneath the water. The dress ripped, causing her to pop free like a cork from one of his wine bottles.

He stumbled in the neck-deep water, nearly falling backward himself. Groping at the ledge above, he pulled himself and Tora upwards with one free arm, rolling onto the stone with and hoisting her in his arms when he staggered upright.

He noticed with the familiar burning feeling that her dress had ripped at the thigh, leaving almost her entire leg exposed.

Cheeks flaming, he dumped her on the divan, where he attempted clumsily to straighten her torn dress around her bare leg.

* * *

The girl came to her senses to find herself dripping wet and alone upon the battered divan in Erik's drawing-room, silence like the oppressiveness of quilts heaped in piles upon a fevered form. 

She got up, shivering, wishing that she had left at least one of her new dresses down here—but how could she possibly have known she would take _another_ tumble into the lake?—and walked into Erik's bedroom, looking the very picture of a bedraggled and half-drowned rat.

Erik turned around from the organ, trying not to look at the ripped cloth hugging her thigh and the transparency of her wet dress.

Tora had forgotten about the coffin. She stared at it, eyes dark and haunted.

"That is where I sleep," said Erik. "Does it surprise you?"

Tora shuddered. "You…_sleep_…in that thing?"

He chuckled. "Odd, do you think?"

Tora shivered and moved closer to Erik, rubbing at her arms as if to rid herself of unspeakable slime.

"It's…horrid."

"Why?"

"Because…" Tora shuddered again, moving even closer to Erik, because closer to Erik meant farther from the coffin. "…it…brings…thoughts…to mind."

"Thoughts of…_death_?" he sneered.

"Y...yes…My mother." she said simply.

"Ah," he said. That made him think of his own mother, throwing him his mask, pushing him away, and he gritted his teeth.

"Did your mother love you?" he asked softly.

Tora glanced at him sharply.

"I suppose she did."

Erik sighed.

"Why do you want to know?"

He looked at her. "Oh, child," he breathed, "if you value your life, you will not push Erik any further on that subject."

Tora's cheek twitched.

"Feeling cross again, are we, Erik?" she queried sarcastically.

"Considering," he said. "that it was only eighteen hours past that you ripped off my mask, inquisitive little rat. Which, in your dripping wet state, you resemble perfectly."

Tora blushed, looking down at herself. "I—" She noticed the tear in the cloth running almost the entire length of her thigh, and gasped, pulling at it to cover the bare leg, which, as she was bent over, gave Erik an excellent view of her partially exposed breasts.

Blushing like a schoolboy and trying furiously to mentally control what he had once termed in a more idiotic mood as Erik the Second, he turned away abruptly, facing the much safer view of sheet music atop the pipe organ.

_Go down_, he thought furiously at his lower regions. Erik the Second seemed to have a mind of its own, however. _Damn the stupid thing_. _Why couldn't I have been born without one? That would have saved me a universe of troubles…_

He dared a glance back at Tora, who had straightened herself out as much as she could manage. Her cheeks were burning. "Er…You wouldn't happen to have anything…?" she mumbled.

Erik sighed and pointed, feeling exasperated again.

Tora looked in the direction of his bony finger, seeing one of his frock coats hanging on a hook in the corner. "Oh, lovely." Anything to cover up her blatant immodesty…

Putting it on, she saw Erik smiling. "The newest fashion in Paris," he said dryly. "Soaking wet clothing, torn artfully, and complete with an overlarge frock coat."

Tora laughed.

Erik looked baffled by his own comment. He hadn't meant to say it out loud.

The fact remained, however, that he had made her laugh…Erik did not have a knack for making people laugh, to say the least.

He sighed again. Perhaps things would be all right after all…

No.

_I will not hope. Hope leads to longing, and longing leads to agony, which..._

Remembered the arms around his mother's waist, hoping that for once, she would return the childish embrace, wrap him in her arms like a mother should.

Remembered the crushing black despair when she removed the child-arms, and the soft, melodiously heartrending death-knell of her voice. "_Love you?…how I wish I could…"_

No. He would not hope. Ever.

Oh, damn. He couldn't help it.

The tinkling, glorious sound of her laughter…he had made her laugh!

He! Erik!

Tora was staring at him.

"Erik?..."

He blew the air out of his almost-lips, tilting his head back and running his fingers through his sparse hair. It was habit.

"We should go back, dear. Bad form, running out on the rehearsal."

She gaped at him. "How did…"

Erik sighed. "Rehearsals go until five. Do you take me for an idiot, Tora? It's only half-past three."

Tora blushed. "Oh. I didn't think…"

"I keep good track of the time," he intoned lazily. "A man of my…wealth…can afford a good pocket-watch…"

He took it out of his waistcoat, briefly, to show her.

Tora raised an eyebrow. "Gold?"

"Naturally."

"How on earth do you make money?"

She looked so funny, standing there in her dripping wet clothes and his frock coat, and asking absurd questions with that endearingly inquisitive and baffled look on her face.

Erik laughed. It was not an awful sound like his chuckle, Tora was pleasantly surprised to realize. It reminded her of bells, the ones in church towers.

"You have such a nice laugh, Erik," she said, half-murmuring it to herself.

Erik snapped to attention. "I…What?"

"I…" Tora flinched a little. "You…oh, never mind it now."

Erik shrugged, looked at his watch. "We must go. They'll be angry with you for leaving."

"If they missed me at all," Tora mumbled. "I'm not much of an asset, you know…but certainly more than Sophie...and they've not fired her yet…perhaps there's hope…"

He laughed again. Tora smiled. It made her think of the little church she'd gone into as a child, remembering the kindly look of the priest, though she couldn't recall his face quite clearly. Erik's laugh…made her think again of bells, church bells, ringing in the tower.

She sighed. "Would it surprise you if I told you I do not wish to go back? Not now, at any rate. After rehearsal, perhaps…when the excitement's died."

Erik felt a shiver. And the awful, cruel shards of hope.

_No. I will not hope._

He didn't speak. He turned back to the organ. "Shall I play something?" he said softly.

Tora moved toward the organ, her curiosity evident. "May I?..." she asked hesitantly.

He looked at her. "I shudder to think of the discordance that would erupt were your untrained fingers to have a try at my organ."

There was an awkward pause.

Tora wanted to laugh. Instead, she blushed furiously. "Oh, Erik…you didn't mean to say it. You truly didn't, did you? Which is what makes it so very funny…"

Erik stared at her. "What?"

"Oh, Erik, don't mind it, please, it doesn't matter," she said hurriedly. "I…would you play me that?" She pointed to the music atop the stand. The music he had written with the images of her flowing through his head.

Erik stared at it, eyes narrowing. "It was only meant to be played once. That sort of thing isn't suitable to hear again and again…besides, it would exhaust me if I played…"

"Erik…but what is it?" she asked, leaning closer to look at the scribbled title in red ink. "You wrote it, then?"

"Yes," he said, hurriedly sweeping the papers from her sight before she could read the dedication, "I wrote that…but you will never hear it…"

And with that, he swept from the room and flung the music into the smoldering fireplace, stoking up the ashes until the pages browned and became illegible.

He sighed.

Tora, feeling confused, came up behind him and asked again, "But _what was it?_"

He rounded on her, looking fierce. "Dare you ask, you inquisitive little demon? Must you torment me any further? Ah, your chatter, on and on, questions absurd and ridiculous…you…you…"

Tora shrank, seeing the eyes blaze yellow and remembering afresh (how could she have forgotten?) the horror underneath. She had nearly forgotten with the different-colored mask…

Erik felt a knife in his stomach. Fear…fear…where there had been laughter…ah, Erik had done it again. He had ruined it.

He sighed, brokenly, but it was more like a sob.

Tora stood rooted, numb, pitying, horrified.

Erik grabbed her hand. "Now we go."

Tora stumbled along, feeling again like that wretched creature of this morning, soulless and without will.

They didn't speak in the boat. Tora felt awful. It had gone wrong again. It always went wrong.

"Erik, I didn't mean…" she began.

"Don't," he snapped. "I'm tired of your childish banter…tired of everything…how I wish I could go to sleep…but _Don Juan Triumphant _isn't finished…and when it is, ah, then I can sleep…forever…and never wake up…"

This talk rather upset Tora, but she said nothing.

Muttering these sorts of things to himself over and over, Erik poled the boat across quickly, surely. He leaped out at the shore and grabbed Tora's hand without request or compliance.

Stumbling through the dark, she felt like a wooden thing, some puppet being dragged along without mercy or justice, and would have cried out had her lungs possessed sufficient air.

As it was, she remained silent and cold and uncomfortably being pulled by her errant companion, until they reached the surface once more.

No words this time. Erik slunk away, before Tora could utter a syllable. And she was left alone, in the cold dark hallway, with nothing but her thoughts for company.

* * *


	9. Of Angst and Aunts

**A/N: Some rather sensual—dare I say sexual—thought material exists in this chapter, which isn't particularly graphic, but you've been warned at any rate.**

* * *

The upcoming production of _Carmen_ was in motion, but the ballet was a mess. Sophie continually tripped over everybody's legs, rabid with advance stage fright, and little Jammes was certainly no help, running about and screaming like a chicken with its head cut off every time she botched up a step. The cry of "We are all doomed to failure!" was shrieked at the top of every ballet rat's lungs by the end of the week, and Tora would have quit the Opera entirely had she been privileged to have lodging in a residence elsewhere. 

Erik did not appear.

The girl began to wonder if he'd really been a demon born of fantasy, but that was ridiculous of course. She had not imagined any of it. The rip in her now-discarded dress and the four satin-and-lace wonders he'd bought for her were proof enough, were they not?

Every time she thought of him, she felt a quiver. Not of horror, though there was that sometimes, and not of fear, though there was an element of that as well. She felt a sort of….sexual quiver, which terrified her.

Remembering the black pit that was his nonexistent nose, and the burning eyes, the skin like the tightly stretched head of a drum, and all the bones showing in his face and hands, she wondered why on earth there was this secret, strange…longing.

And of course, that was (seemingly) even more ridiculous than imagining he had never existed at all.

And so after a time, she discarded it like she had her ruined dress, but still it wavered, hovering, in the back of her mind like a dark forbidden shadow, waiting.

_Waiting for what?_ she thought.

* * *

The absent Opera Ghost made his reappearance a few mere days before the production. It was in the darkness behind the stage sets, where Tora had gone to get some peace from the chaos. 

A bony hand grabbed her arm and the other stifled her startled scream.

"Tora, Tora," whispered the silken voice, along with the characteristic dry chuckle, and she closed her eyes, "Did I frighten you, my dear? I seem to have a knack for such things…"

Tora, unwilling to give herself over to the mad, frighteningly erotic sensations coursing through her body, wrenched away. "You could have warned me before jumping out at me like that, you wretch."

Horribly, he grinned. She realized that the mask he was wearing today was smaller, less confining. It exposed his almost-lips, at any rate.

She shivered. "You can be unnerving, Erik…"

"Your production is a shambles," he said, as if he had not heard. "You should be more conscientious of yourself, rather than tripping up Sophie."

"It was not _I _who tripped up Sophie," Tora snapped. "That was a certain Marguerite Giry."

"Ah. Little Meg," the voice chuckled. "Her mother runs my Box. A clever, kind old woman, as you well know, if a bit prone to wild imaginings. How she eats anything with only three teeth is entirely beyond me."

Tora rolled her eyes. "They'll have missed me by now. I must go—"

The bony hand grabbed her arm again. "You want to be a great success, do you not?"

Tora flinched, then whispered, "Yes…but how on earth can you manage it?"

"I can teach you…" he paused. "To sing. Like an angel. If that is your wish."

Tora tugged at her arm, but his fingers would not budge. "Every girl wants to be able to sing like an angel, Erik, but for me it is only fleeting. I sing every once in a while, when they're in need of more chorus girls, and I do love it, but generally I prefer to dance."

His fingers dropped and he sighed. "Ah, well, it was a thought."

"I don't suppose you could teach me how to dance like La Sorelli," she said sullenly.

Erik let out a short bark of laughter. "La Sorelli is not what you'd call…the soul of propriety. I would not want you to turn into a La Sorelli even if I could teach you how to dance properly, which I cannot."

"You don't dance, Erik?" she asked absently, wincing as another distant shriek from Jammes rent the air.

He sighed. "A few…gypsy steps. I learnt them while I was in…" He broke off abruptly.

Tora glanced. "You were with gypsies?"

He stood there sullenly, ominously. "Don't prod me about my past." he breathed.

Tora looked away. "Everyone has things they try to forget. With you, it seems you try to forget _everything_."

He merely stood there, eyes burning.

She held his gaze for a moment, then resignedly turned and walked away, quickly, stumbling a little over her overlong costume, thinking furiously, _I need to remember to talk to the seamstress about my hemming…_

And, more softly in her head, _Poor Erik._

And Erik, clenching his teeth at her flippant and silent dismissal, slid away in a dark corner to watch the ballet rats make fools of themselves yet again.

He even fooled himself into thinking that it was only this he wanted to watch, for amusement, not for a sight of the slim curves of Tora moving about the stage in whirling, lovely arcs.

This self-deception lasted a few minutes. When those minutes were up and the truth metaphorically smashed him in the face, he felt himself going slightly mad. Again.

* * *

Tora danced, whirling, disregarding the shrieks and the stumbling little girls, and for a moment, she became a diva. In her mind, she saw not the smiling faces of the rich and powerful staring at her lone figure on the stage on opening night, as some girls might imagine within childish fame-and-fortune fantasies. She saw only an image in her brain of Erik watching her in the shadows. She could feel him. She knew he was there. 

She danced for him, and him alone.

There was silence on the stage, as the little rats watched in awe and the music continued, with Tora whirling and leaping in graceful arcs, dancing for Erik, though none of them knew.

"What are you waiting for?" snapped the ballet mistress. "Dance, you staring little sparrows! Follow her example, if you can!"

The girls tumbled over themselves and re-formed the lines, throwing their heart and soul into the dance and achieving at least a partial semblance of professionalism by the end of rehearsal.

The ballet mistress collapsed into one of the empty audience seats, sighing with relief.

Tora was oblivious. She kept dancing, even when there was no music.

"Margot?" whispered Sophie, staring at Tora, wondering if the older girl had gone mad.

Tora's friend Suzette took quick stock of the situation and chalked it up to the flutter of having what she thought was a secret admirer, though Tora never breathed a word.

"TORA!" she yelled, depending on the response to her given name—sure enough, Tora came to an abrupt halt, stumbling and falling very ungracefully on her rear end.

Everyone laughed.

Suzette helped her to her feet. "I know you're all a-twitter about that man of yours, _chérie_, but you could at least keep a bearing on your surroundings," she muttered.

Tora stared at her. "How do you know—"

Their conversation was cut short by the ballet mistress's curt dismissal and the dispersal of the chattering girls to the dormitories.

Suzette grasped Tora's hand and led her dazed friend to a quiet corridor. "I know," she said, "because you talk about him in your sleep. And when you dance, you act as though you're drugged. You hardly touch your meals. You sit by yourself and sigh and look mournful. Are you in love, _mon amie_?"

Tora shook her head. "I…oh….I don't know."

Suzette laughed. "How can you not know? Is he so very confusing?"

"Yes!" said Tora. "He is! He's never the same from one moment to the next! I can't fathom him!"

The girls heard a noise and stiffened. Tora's face went white. "It's him," she whispered, looking up, behind.

M. Debienne came around the corner, whistling. Tora sagged with relief.

Suzette waited until he had gone, then grasped Tora by the arm. "Are you frightened of him? Your secret admirer, I mean?"

Tora shook. "He's not my secret admirer. He talks to me because there is no one else to talk to."

Suzette looked bemused. "But what is his name, _amie_?"

Tora looked around, then murmured it in her ear.

The other girl persisted. "Are you frightened of him?"

"Yes," she whispered. "Sometimes…but there are other times….when I…" her voice cracked and she refused to go any further.

Erik, hiding behind a set piece, still feeling slightly faint at her "I don't know…" when asked if she was in love….(he was reeling a little from the fact that she had not answered _No_)….wondered what on earth she had just been about to say.

Suzette pressed her. "What? What is it?"

Tora sighed.

What she subsequently whispered in Suzette's ear was enough to make them both blush and giggle nervously, although Erik's hearing was not quite sharp enough to catch the words.

Had he heard even part of the nearly inaudible sentence, he would have blushed a shade more crimson than either of them.

* * *

Dancing in _Carmen_ two nights later, on the stage in front of the rich nobility, was like a feverish dream…every moment Tora felt _his _eyes on her, as if they had developed a sort of sixth sense between them, a mental connection that bound them more tightly than any iron chains. 

Like unbreakable wire it was, taut and irretrievable, and stretched to the breaking point.

Tora felt a passion when she danced that she had never felt in her life before. With every kick of her legs there came a dark, unbidden image of him between them; with every pirouette there came an imaginary feeling of hands whirling her around to clutch her possessively; her cheeks flamed and her head fogged, thinking of nothing but the dance, _get this over with, get it over, nothing matters but finishing the dance…finishing…_

When the dance was finally over, Tora collapsed in the wings, gasping.

* * *

He knew nothing of her new obsession, or that she tried not to admit it even to herself. He was blind to her passion, her whispered secrets in the dark to her friend and to her own tortured mind. All he thought was that he must be content to watch her from the shadows, and talk to her every once in a while, but he _would not_ take her down into his lair again, and above all, he _would not _write music about…no. _That_ he could not promise. 

Erik sighed from his hiding place, and to his consternation, she heard it.

The girl whirled around, alone in the dark corridor save for Erik. The opera had long since finished. All the others were off drinking, shagging, or in the case of the younger girls, begging some of the older girls for gossip.

"Erik?" she whispered.

He moved a little, but did not utter a word.

"Erik…" she whispered, gliding toward the sound, still in the grip of the fever-dance, wanting, despite the horrific nature of his face, to press her trembling lips to his thin unyielding ones, just to see…see if…

"Child?"

The voice was not Erik's. Tora whirled around, mouth agape. "I…excuse me, Madame," she said politely. "Is there something…?"

The older woman came toward her with a tense, concentrated expression on her face. Her hands came down upon Tora's shoulders, making her flinch from the unpredicted contact.

The woman gripped her. "Are you…can you be?" She stared at her.

Tora was becoming slightly unnerved. "Madame, I…" she stopped.

The woman was strangely like…

She resembled…

Tora shook a little. Memory was assaulting her, her mother's waxen, perfect face inside the coffin, the gossiping women telling each other what should be done.

The woman in front of her looked a little like what she remembered of her mother, albeit much older…but there, the nose, the high-drawn cheekbones. The deep, soulful eyes.

"You…you are…who are you?" Tora gasped.

The woman gripped her shoulders more firmly, speaking excitedly. "I saw you dancing, on the stage…the lights caught your face, and I could not believe what I saw of your eyes, your profile…she looked so very like you, you know. Or rather, it is the other way around, is it not, Tora? You are Tora, aren't you? Or did you change your name when you vanished?"

The girl felt faint, dizzy. "How do you know…"

The woman's grip grew tighter. "You _are_ her, then? You're Tora?"

The girl, feeling nervous and slightly excited—she had not thought of this, of having a relative somewhere—she whispered, "Yes…"

The woman looked numb."She wrote me, you know. In the early days, after we parted and I came here to France to seek a fortune on the stage….rather like you, I suppose. But we…lost touch. And then the letter came, from those who knew I was her next of kin…she'd passed from the earth, God rest her soul, like your poor father four years before, and you'd simply disappeared into thin air, they said, and first came pain, then horror, then a sadness that completely ruined my life onstage. And then I simply went absolutely numb. I couldn't imagine what had become of you, child."

Tora felt her eyes swimming with unshed moisture. "Her sister, then? I remember her vaguely telling me when I was little…of an aunt, across the sea somewhere. I'd…forgotten…that it was France…"

They embraced suddenly, tightly, as if the other was a lifeline in a raging sea—a connection—which was not far off, considering that they were the only ones of their family left—and Tora could no longer hold back her jubilant, errant tears.

Erik, watching, uttered a hissing intake of breath.

He stared for a while, and then made a quiet and completely unobserved exit, feeling broken and weary, and feeling…very out of place.

So Tora had a relative after all…he could not fathom why this gnawed at him so, why it made him feel as if she'd soon be…away. Away? Where? He scoffed at this idea. If the woman had been in France for this long already, it wasn't likely she'd leave, much less take Tora with her…why did he feel an angry, roaring ache?

Perhaps he was merely jealous that she had family.

* * *

The hours passed, slowly and tortuously, while he tried his hand at another Tora-composition and threw it into the fire in disgust. Venting his rage and his desire, he ripped apart a pillow with his bare hands. 

There was a noise, outside.

He heard the bell ringing, got to his feet, thinking it might be another foolish old trap-door-shutter, but knowing nonetheless that it was her. Had to be. He could feel her presence nowadays, like the sharp edge of a curved razor at his senses, tearing at his brain, making him want to weep with the pain of being so near to…whatever it was he wanted.

Why he felt angry that she should so brazenly, rashly come to find him down here—for the second time in as many months—he could not truly say.

And so he waited, standing by the hidden doorway, arms crossed, leaning against stone, waiting.

Tora saw him in the dim, dark blue light, lit by a single burning torch, and he standing both stiffly and at ease, looking for all the world like a wraith in the darkness. A shadow blending with the night…

"Erik," she said softly. "I…"

"I know about your aunt," he said suddenly, and she was struck by the sullenness in his tone. "Is there something you would tell me?"

She swallowed, unwilling to step out of the boat onto land-stone and risk losing her head completely by mere contact or promise thereof with his skin. Just the brief touch of a cold hand would send her reeling, blind, aching with need. She knew it already.

"Why don't you…disembark?" The hissing male voice was like tiny ice-needles, cold and whispered, rather maliciously, she thought.

Tora shivered, feeling the old fear, but the new, tingling, burning feeling was mixed within, underneath, quivering to be heard.

"I…" she swallowed again. "I…" Searching for any explanation as to why she should stay in the boat, any explanation other than the awful truth. Oh, she could not, would not give in to the fire beneath her bones…she was stronger than this…she must not give in…

But she wanted to. God, how she wanted to.

The cold hand she dreaded—not from horror, but from the exquisite firestorm that would erupt at his touch—reached out to help her.

She stared at it, and he completely mistook her apprehension for revulsion. He withdrew it quickly. "Forgive me," he said. "I must not…assume things…"

Tora looked at him dubiously.

"My aunt…" she said quickly, stumbling over her words in her haste, and her growing feverishness just by being near, "…she wants to take me back to America. Only for a….while…" her voice trailed off at the look he was fixing upon her.

"Oh, Erik, don't, you frighten me," she whispered. "I…I don't really want to go, you know, actually, but she wants it so very badly and we've only just met…and she's the only…"

"Family," he breathed, the word on his lips like a prayer and a curse. A tear escaped from its confines and trailed mockingly, infuriatingly, down his cheek—Lord, how he hated to cry—but it was too dark for the girl to see.

At the tone in his voice, Tora let out a sob. What was this connection between them? It was as if she could feel all his sorrows now, all his exquisite anguish—but still she did not know the cause.

"I—I'm going now, Erik," she said softly. "I…I'll see you again, I suppose…before I leave for America in a few days...Turn up behind a set piece again, will you, so that I don't have to come traipsing down here and ruin all my dresses?" She tried to sound light, but her tone was despair.

Erik tried not to take any hope from this, the despair in her voice that indicated—perhaps—an unwillingness to be away…from him? Or was she simply loathe to leave her friends in the ballet corps? _I will not give in to blind foolish longing…Hope is for young, ordinary men. Not Erik. Not I. I will not hope…_

Tora stepped onto the embankment, suddenly, wanting to embrace him, but simply reaching out her hand and touching his shoulder, gently.

He sighed, though he wanted to moan.

The mask was in the way, or she would have pressed a chaste, softly affectionate kiss to his tightly stretched cheek.

She was tempted to lift it, but she was afraid of her own reaction to his horrific appearance and his temper if she did. Despite the fact that she…she wanted him.

While he both stiffened and relaxed beneath her touch, she felt herself quivering, and she knew now that she needed to get away. She was dangerously close to ripping away his mask and violently kissing his mouth—appearances be damned—, rather than the slightly sisterly kiss she had been planning on just moments before.

Turning suddenly, unwillingly, Tora forced herself to break away from his gaze, his bony, yielding shoulder beneath her burning hand. "In a few days…see me off, Erik…before I go…" she murmured, turning her head.

He didn't speak. He made no promises, but then he made no denials either.

Sighing, Tora got into the boat and was about to pole herself across when he grabbed her arm, making her gasp. "_I_ shall take you across."

The burning eyes brooked no argument. Tora settled down into the cushions, feeling faint.

He poled across swiftly, surely, stabbing at the water.

Tora had a sudden thought. "Erik…" she said. "What of the Siren? Is she real?"

Erik's only response was a painful, heart-wrenching sigh, more like a sob than anything. He gritted his teeth.

And Tora squeezed her eyes shut against it, as the sigh twirled around her, enveloping her with its pain.

* * *


	10. Dreams and Awakenings

**A/N: For my own purposes, I have changed Christine's age. She is now two years older than she was previously, which follows the Leroux novel a bit more closely at least, though not to perfection. (I believe she's meant to be twenty or so, or at least that's what I've heard, but her age is never expressly mentioned in the novel to my knowledge.) **

* * *

She did not want to go.

She did.

She did not.

Suzette was wonderfully excited for her, flitting around like a hummingbird on the wing, getting her packed when Tora did nothing but lie on her bed, staring blankly at the cracked dormitory ceiling.

All that was occupying her thoughts was Erik.

Tortured man…she could feel his sorrow.

Seeping through her bones like an icy wind was the cold feeling that if she consented to go, and came back a year or two later…when she returned…things would not be the same.

_He'll have forgotten all about me._

No, he wouldn't. She could feel the thought emanating from him five cellars below her feet, where he was scribbling bars and eighth-notes on staff-paper in red, red ink, in his scrawling, uneasy handwriting.

_What is this connection? Is it even physically possible to feel the thoughts and emotions of another?_

Sleep overtook her without warning or consent, and she dreamt swirling images of…Erik looking out behind his mask…and then strange images, of a blond quiet girl in the chorus who kept to herself, the blue-eyed girl who seemed so hesitant to sing her parts, and why Tora would dream of such an inconsequential person in her life as seventeen-year-old…what was her name? She could never remember. Such a pretty name, but Tora could never remember. Nobody paid much mind to the girl, anyway…except for black-haired, swarthy-skinned little Meg Giry, but then Meg paid attention to everyone because of her friendly nature.

The dream swirled again, and Erik was in the shadows watching the blond girl dance.

The rush of jealousy was quick and sudden…she did not like his eyes, the way he watched the unsuspecting chorus girl, like a predatory hawk. She was fearful for the girl…why?

If she felt such fear for a girl with whom she'd spoken no word, then why did she not fear for herself?

_Because she does not care for him...she will never feel anything but pity and horror, and it will drive him to utter madness._

_He loves me differently...different than this blind, awful obsession in his gaze when he stares at her as if..._

_Wait a moment…_she thought blindly. _Loves?...now where did that come from, Tora? Why on earth would he love _me?…

Nothing came to answer, but then the premonition reverberated in her brain, a thousand times. The younger girl was in danger…when Tora would go…she…Erik would…

_What on earth is this nonsense?_ Tora thought within her dream, thoughts fragmenting, failing to make up a coherent prophecy, and she was struggling to reach dream-Erik from where she was, to throw him out of that ridiculous trance he seemed to be in…but her legs were leaden…they would not move…and her throat, when she tried to call out, was mute.

* * *

Suzette took one look at her friend and contemplated waking her, but refrained. _She's had so little sleep…_

Tiptoeing out of the room, she failed to notice the shadow that was not a shadow, the shape that was pressed to the wall outside the door, standing as still as a statue while she walked by.

Tora, inside the ballet dormitory, tossed in her sleep.

The shadow kept hidden beneath the cloak. If someone should see him…

White fingers automatically fingered the cumbersome covering for his face to make sure it was still in place.

No one was about in the dormitories. They had all scattered long before, eager for a chance at an attractive young nobleman or, in the case of the very young girls, a stolen taste of champagne.

He flitted like a ghost into the spacious room littered with unmade beds and corsets flung over chairs, feeling the old familiar fear that he'd be caught by some unsuspecting soul, and then be…

Shaking his head to clear it, he spotted her lying in tempestuous repose in her lacy white underdress.

Erik stared momentarily, and then the thought came, with crashing, insistent force.

_I should not be here._

He hadn't known she'd be asleep...even worse, he hadn't known she'd be indecently dressed.

Why must she torment him so, like this? Granted, she never did it on purpose…

Tora stirred suddenly, fitfully, apparently in the grip of dreams.

The movement made him freeze.

Erik stood still, so still that someone might have mistaken him for a dark pillar in the middle of the deserted room.

And then she murmured his name in her sleep.

Like a man possessed, he fell to his knees before her bed, gripping the side of the mattress until his fingers turned bloodless to keep his hands from moving of their own accord.

Her eyes opened before he was aware that she had turned on her side, facing him, and half-waking.

"Erik?" she whispered. "Why are you..."

He didn't move, although his first impulse had been to bolt from the room like a frightened deer.

A slender feminine hand reached out in half-slumber, slowly, as if time itself had gone to a crawl and nothing else existed in the world but that hand, moving towards him like a breath of air.

Still he did not move, did not flinch when the hand reached him at last, pulled him inexorably forward by the lapels of his fancy-dress coat, closer, closer.

He was not thinking in terms of reality, or possibilities. He thought of nothing. His mind was a blank and staring wall, empty and blind.

And he saw, vaguely, her lips part and become slightly inflamed, and he felt another set of fingers at his gaunt waist, sliding around to encompass the small of his back.

For eternity it seemed that they were almost there,almost to the crucial pounding point when their lips would meet and going back would be utterly impossible, though both thought they were trapped in some sort of strange, delicious dream.

Fingers felt for his mask, and it seemed strange to him that he felt nothing…not rage, not horror…only a deep pain inside his chest, which grew until he thought he would burst.

_Oh, Tora…_

He was dreaming, he must be…she would never willingly do such things, even while half-asleep…

The mask had not yet come off, but their bodies, their faces, one masked, the other exposed, were slowly moving closer to each other with every passing second, in a hazy cloud of waking dreams.

Footsteps sounded on the floor, coming towards the dormitories, making two pairs of half-lidded eyes, dark-brown and yellow alike, spring open abruptly.

Before Tora knew what had happened, she was fully awake and the pressure around her waist, the entangling of her hair, each from a set of white and bony fingers, was gone, and the black-masked shadow had fled for fear of discovery to God knows where.

All was quiet.

* * *


	11. Leavetakings

All packed.

There had even been an impromptu going-away party thrown by the ballet rats the previous night, with stolen champagne and a cake that someone's mother had made for their birthday. Goodbyes had been said, tears had been shed, and they had all stayed up until midnight telling stories until the ballet mistress came to force them to get some sleep for rehearsals the next morning.

Tora had no doubt now that she would go. There was no turning back now.

And yet…

The very walls, the very windows, the very air seemed to be begging her to stay.

Tora shook her head violently. _There is nothing for me here. No future…If I stay I will remain a lowly ballet dancer with barely any money and no place to stay but in this oppressive Opera House…_

There were people she cared about in this place, to be sure. But Aunt Agnes had said that America had better prospects…

At first, she thought of America as an exciting new start, but in all actuality, it began to seem to her imagination like a cold, dreary spot. She began to see images of it in her mind in faded color, graying shapes. Was it because it held so many awful memories for her, that final year she'd spent as a child within its confines with her sick and dying mother?

Tora shivered, thinking of it…and then, suddenly, the air seemed to quiver, her nostrils flaring and her skin bearing gooseflesh, accompanied by a rush of heady warmth through her veins.

She felt him behind her.

* * *

His hands, skeletal white hands, reached out to touch her hair, barely brushing its surface with their touch, and then, shocked at his own boldness, those same hands dropped quickly to his sides as she stiffened but did not turn around. 

They stood there in silence.

Neither knew exactly what to say.

How Erik longed to reach out and grasp her by the shoulders, to pull her to him and bury his lips within the unruly waves of her hair, but he thought that would only horrify her.

Tora stood stiff, unmoving. She remembered her dream.

_If you go…_the inner voice whispered once more, bringing her images of the dancing Christine…now she remembered the name. The little Swedish girl, so quiet and reserved, so frightened of her own shadow it seemed, at times.

She shook the images away with a shake of her head, and her hair rippled a little, messy and unbrushed, which condition to her mind made her look like a sea monster, but that was her own self-critical opinion.

Erik's fingers trembled. He could not touch her, for he was terrified of frightening her.

Finally, she turned around.

"I thought you might come," she muttered. "Though I wasn't sure whether you despised goodbyes…you seemed like the sort of person that would."

Erik stood like a statue. "I am."

Tora raised an eyebrow, gazing at his expressionless mask. "Then…why did you come?"

Erik said nothing. His only response was a very small, nearly inaudible sigh.

He wanted to say _You have bewitched me_, or _All I have is yours_. Instead, he merely stretched out his fingers, brushing her cheek with one hand.

To his amazement, Tora did not flinch, or even stiffen. Instead, her eyes half-closed and she looked as though…

But that was nonsense.

Wasn't it?

Slender, warm female fingers grasped cold, bony white ones and held them to her cheek for one insane, brief moment, and then Tora blanched and dropped his hand, embarrassed, wondering what he must think of her.

Erik blushed. He was glad she couldn't see it. He held his tingling, aching fingers in his other hand, noting with interest that they were still warm from where she'd pressed them against her face.

"Child…" he began.

There was a noise, and Erik swiftly sank into the shadows, even as Tora held out her hand and mouthed _Don't go._

He didn't.

He remained where he was, swathed in shadow, hidden from casual eyes.

Aunt Agnes bustled into the room. "Tora, dear, are you all packed?"

Tora nodded once in assent, and then quickly added, "But I need to…to add a few things…" She trailed off awkwardly, her eyes darting involuntarily to the place where Erik had hidden himself.

Agnes looked slightly amused. "Why, child," she said, "Who is there that I don't know about?"

_How on earth can I be so transparent?_ Tora wondered furiously. First Suzette, now Aunt Agnes. Next it would be Erik himself who found out her secret. Which, she reflected, wouldn't be so terrible…

"I…Aunt, could you…wait for a moment? Out…side?" Tora was blushing furiously.

Agnes laughed aloud. "He's here, then? Hiding? Well, don't just harbor him away, let me meet the boy!"

Tora blushed even more severely. "He's…not a boy. And...he doesn't like to be seen."

Agnes abruptly left off laughing and raised an eyebrow.

Tora sighed. "Aunt, please…"

Agnes rolled her eyes. "Whatever are they teaching you in France these days? Very well. I shall be outside and come back for you in five minutes, _chérie_. No more, no less, _oui_?"

"_Oui_," Tora muttered. She would have to remember to ask Aunt to re-teach her the English language. She had all but forgotten it—a fact Aunt had been made aware of—which was why they primarily spoke in French to each other.

"Five minutes," said Aunt. "I shall see you soon, Tora."

Tora bobbed her head, feeling extraordinarily embarrassed and nervous. Agnes left the room, chuckling to herself.

Tora's eyes never left the floor. She was nearly paralyzed with embarrassment. "Erik…" she murmured, her lips barely moving. "Are you still there, _mon ami_?"

"_Oui_," he said, gliding out from the shadows. "You have…some interesting relatives."

Tora blushed. "She's my only relative. You know that."

Erik shrugged, looked at her quizzically. She was blushing furiously. "So mortified, _chérie_?" he asked quietly.

Tora looked up. "I…she said things. You heard. She implied…she thought…that we…we…" Tora went even redder.

Erik would have chuckled had he not felt so suddenly dead inside. He completely misinterpreted her embarrassment to mean that she was horrified at the thought of herself and he having any sort of non-platonic relationship.

His voice was cold, slightly bitter, and sharp, like the edge of a knife. "I am not surprised that you would be so aghast at such a suggestion."

Tora's eyes whipped up to meet his. "Don't be ridiculous. Why do you continuously beat away at yourself so?"

Erik twitched a little. "Then," he intoned silkily, "I take it that her…implication…does _not_ offend you mightily?" His voice was laced with sarcasm, although his heart had leapt briefly at her statement.

He nearly fell to the ground at her response. "No," she said frankly. "It does not."

"Well then," he said hoarsely, "what does it inspire, if not fear and loathing?"

Tora tried not to blush, but it was a futile effort. "Never mind, Erik. You wouldn't want to know…you'd think horrible things about me if…"

Their bodies were suddenly pressed together. Tora gasped. Erik's hands were gripping her around the waist, and he was breathing more heavily than usual. Frightened by the suddenness of it, Tora pushed away, immediately regretting doing so when she saw his eyes grow cold instead of warm, dead instead of alive.

"Erik," she whispered. "You don't understand…"

He was so tall…so very gaunt…his eyes were beginning to frighten her.

"Don't look at me like that," she bit out, and suddenly, impulsively, wrapped her arms around his waist in a childish and breath-stopping hug, loving the musty smell of his clothes. It was just so…Erik. That smell.

Before Erik could gather his wits, she had whispered, "Goodbye, Erik," and disentangled herself. Before he could say anything, ask her any of several questions swirling in his tortured brain, she had grabbed her small suitcase and bolted from the room, trying her level best not to weep.

Aunt met her outside. "Oh, Tora, dear," she exclaimed, seeing the streaks of moisture down her face, "we all have to say goodbye sometime…" She wrapped an arm around the girl, giving her support as they walked out of the Opera Garnier and into the carriage that would take them away to the westernmost tip of France and then to the sea, where they would begin the long voyage to America.

Erik stood where he was, feeling empty.


	12. L'Ange de Musique

**A/N: Just to make things perfectly clear, don't worry. This is not going to escalate into any sort of E/C. At least, no more than the Leroux novel does. Which is barely at all.**

**Also, along with changing Christine's age, I've tweaked her dialogue and descriptions a bit so that she is at least slightly more mature than she was when I first worked on her character development.**

* * *

It was a year after Tora's departure that Erik began to fall completely, irresistibly, and inexplicably in love with Christine Daae.

Well…love was a relative term. To put it more bluntly, he desired her.

She was so young—barely eighteen, and so very lonely that she reminded him in some small way of himself.

Although, to be sure, his mother had not loved him as her Papa surely had loved her. He heard her speaking to her father when she was alone, pretending to herself that her father was there beside her and could hear her plaintive cries. Yes, her father had no doubt loved her.

There was, of course, one difference between himself and Christine that was larger than all the rest.

She was quite beautiful. So beautiful, in fact, that he was nearly dizzy every time she passed by in the corridors, every time he watched her perform. Such talent she had, but she refused to let it soar!

He felt he'd found a compatriot, someone who might understand him if ever he decided to worm his way into her existence. Someone he could teach, and she would let herself be taught.

He noticed over the months that she had hardly any friends, if any at all, and the only person who paid any kind of real attention to her at all was little Meg Giry, who was kind to everyone and never let a day go by without speaking at least once to every girl and woman in the ballet corps.

Little Daae was so terribly lonely. His heart nearly broke when he saw her, so sad and so beautiful…and so very alone.

He had not forgotten Tora. But he had no hope that she would ever return. There had been no letter, no word…and indeed, where would she send such a letter where it could reach him?

Better to forget.

He was adept at handling pain.

He didn't know what this mad longing was within him when he gazed at Christine. It was…different than Tora. He had never felt any urge to comfort Tora. It seemed that she had always been the one to comfort him.

Christine wrung from him a deep sort of…empathy. He knew her pain, for he had felt it himself. Granted, not quite the same kind of pain, but they shared a common bond, nevertheless.

Finally, he was suddenly struck with a bold and awful notion.

He created a revolving mirror to put in Christine's dressing-room, a mirror that could only be seen through on one side, his side. On her side, she would see nothing but her own reflection.

He swore to himself, however, that he would not watch her while she dressed. That was going too far beyond parameters that he dared not cross.

She knew nothing of the mirror, nor did anyone else but he. He replaced the old mirror with his own one night, making sure that nobody was about, and not even the most trained eye could have noticed the difference when he was finished.

And so he began to sing to her behind the mirror when she was in her dressing-room, fully clothed of course—if ever he was behind the mirror when she began to disrobe, he always managed to look chastely away, though it was torture to know of her scant nearness—and he projected his voice so that she could not know the place from whence it sprang.

And Christine began to wonder, and she asked him questions, and he answered them.

Sometimes they were questions that made him laugh, like, "Why does La Sorelli have such an insufferable ego?" And sometimes they were questions that made him somber and quiet, such as, "Why must people die, especially when they're needed most?"

The girl mostly thought she was dreaming, that he was a figment of her imagination, that he did not in fact exist at all.

And then one day, fueled by an idea from her surrogate mother Mme. Valerius, she asked him a new question.

"Are you the Angel of Music, my voice?" she queried one morning, while lacing a ballet slipper.

He had no idea how to answer such a question, but he supposed that "Yes" was as good an answer as any. Besides, look how her lovely blue eyes lit up and sparkled when she asked, though she tried to be rather conspicuously nonchalant. It was plain that she was hoping he'd answer in the affirmative.

He asked, softly, "The Angel of Music, child?"

"Oh, yes!" she said, smiling softly. "The one that my father promised me! He is dead, you know…my father. He told me he would send the Angel to teach me after he died…"

Erik was silent for a moment.

"Christine," he said softly, "Your father sent me, indeed. I am the Angel of Music. I have come."

Christine looked up, startled. "I knew it," she breathed. "Oh, thank you."

Erik was experiencing mixed emotions. On one hand, he was giddy at causing her happiness; on the other, he felt like a monster for deceiving her so.

But no matter. It was perfect, this deceptive approach to winning her love, to teaching her to sing. It had fallen into place like pieces to a puzzle. He would teach her now…oh, yes, he would teach her. And she would sing so beautifully and so powerfully that grown men would be brought to tears by the sound of her voice.

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he thought that Tora would not approve.

He shoved that thought callously away.


	13. A Shortlived Ecstasy

**M/N (Muses' Note): We, the Muses, apologize for the frustrating delay of this, the thirteenth chapter of The Opera Wench. The authoress has promised to update several times, each time failing to produce results, and we have subsequently prodded her with a pitchfork, which snapped her out of her lamentable bout of writer's block and into quite a burst of creativity. This chapter may be a bit disjointed, but it is, at all events, an update. We thank you for your patience and your wonderful reviews. We do, however, have a request to make of the numerous lurkers, aka PWRTSAMEATFAOSABYNTLARs (that's short for People Who Read The Story And Maybe Even Add To Favorites And/Or Story Alerts But Yet Neglect To Leave A Review…and you know who you are), and that request is that you take the relatively small amount of time to push the Submit Review button and leave, at the very least, a short sentence or two. We and the authoress are grateful for your interest in the story and anticipate your kind cooperation in this matter. **

**Sincerely, **

**The Management **

**aka Messrs. O.G., Montoya, and Pointe du Lac**

**A/N: Just for warning purposes, my readers, a dream sequence, among other things of a rather questionable nature, causes this chapter to fully earn its T rating. If PG-13 sensuality is not your cup of tea, it isn't necessary to skip the entire chapter, but proceed with caution when you come to the paragraph beginning with "Farther away…" and beyond.**

* * *

America, and in particular New York, was not as wonderful as she'd hoped.

They had been robbed the first day. Every scrap of money, save for the small roll of bills Tora had surreptitiously hidden in her boot in case of an emergency, had been taken by a considerably talented pickpocket. As such, they were forced to live in a squalid apartment building, which they barely had enough to make the first payment for in the first place. They were also forced to find work, which, for women with barely any money, was no small feat.

Tora wanted, at that point, to re-pack her bags and head straight back to France, but Aunt would hear none of it. "We dug ourselves a hole," she said, "and by God, I will not give up so easily simply because I have been denied a few comforts...I'll see if I can write to my cousin. Perhaps she can help."

She wrote the very next day to her cousin, who lived in Boston. It had been a month since the letter had been written. No word had come yet.

Tora had briefly considered saving her money and simply going back to France on her own, but she didn't want to leave her aunt alone in America. Tora had no other family that she knew of, besides Aunt Agnes' cousin, who she did not know--and whom she suspected, from the conspicuous lack of a response to Aunt's letter, did not care if either of them lived or died.

Agnes steadily re-taught her niece the English language. Tora's mind recovered some of the words easily, but mostly, she simply preferred to speak in French. She struggled with simple English phrases sometimes, which embarrassed her slightly, but she was, at heart at least, a Frenchwoman.

"French is such a lovely language," she said to Aunt one day, while flopping sideways on her bed in the seedy little apartment, "and English is so…so very mixed, and raw, almost. Not elegant at all, like French…"

"You must learn, Tora," said Aunt mildly. "You must, if you are to survive."

Aunt did not mean physically. She meant making a living, working.

Tora did not like New York. She hated the ugly, impersonal cast-iron buildings, most of which were painted to resemble wood and marble. She had no love for the industrial hustle and bustle of the booming city, and she abhorred the acrid smell of smoke from the factories.

"Be glad we're in the East, child," said Agnes one day, after listening to Tora complain about such things. "Out in the West, it's a lawless place, filled with gunmen and violence. Or so Biddy told me."

Biddy was Aunt's friend from the marketplace. Whenever they went out to buy, Agnes inevitably headed over to Biddy's vegetable stand to gossip on and on about absolutely nothing, to Tora's ears.

Agnes herself was employed at a factory, plucking chickens until she could find a more fulfilling means of making money. Tora was engaged in the same sort of work, and she hated it.

The pay was awful, and they earned barely enough to live through the months. At times she wished for the opera house again. At least there all she'd had to do was dance, and chatter with her friends…and…

With a flush, she thought for the thousandth time of Erik.

She wished she had thought to ask him where to send letters. She had no wish for an active correspondence—heaven forbid Aunt asking questions, and besides, Erik didn't strike her as the type who would write frequently anyway—but she did long for some scant communication at least, some link to the dark underground world with which she had inexplicably been enthralled, despite…

She shuddered. That face haunted her at times, still. The memory had faded, but it was enough.

However…

_When _did _I stop caring about the awfulness of it?_ she wondered. _When did I…begin to want…_

She blushed.

And, without further ado, she sat at the battered writing desk that she had salvaged from a neighbor's scrap heap, and began to write a letter to Suzette.

* * *

Christine was…picturesque. 

The shadow felt himself blushing, as he always did, and hated himself for it. Such a childish thing, blushing…so weak, foolish.

Yellow hair shook as she released it from its bonds, blue eyes looked up, around the room, and the soft female voice, setting a spell upon his senses, asked, quietly, "Angel?"

Erik cleared his throat a little; his voice was husky. "Yes, Christine?"

The singer sighed. "You speak of a great triumph in the future…but I'm not sure I want it. To be quite truthful, I don't know myself when I sing…"

"There, there, child," he said slowly, hypnotically, and she relaxed, with no idea that her Angel of Music was a yellow-eyed demon of a man hiding just behind her mirror.

"Oh, _mon Ange_..." she sighed again. "Will I ever be great? Will I ever be as famous as you say?"

"Wait and see," he said then, eyes becoming glazed, unfocused, as he imagined her on stage, before the audience, the applause and cheers resounding throughout the house. "We shall astonish Paris!"

He failed to hear her soft whisper, nothing more than a breath on her lips, and, had he been listening, an uncharacteristically morose remark. "I never really wanted fame. Only my father."

* * *

Tora lay on her small bed (she had gotten used to the smell of the mattress, though it reeked like rotten cheese), trying not to listen to Aunt's soft snore, which was soothing on some nights and grating on others. 

Eyes closed.

And she dreamed.

* * *

Farther away, across the sea, yellow eyes stared at the ceiling, immersed as he was in his confining, open coffin. The black draperies were so very maudlin, he thought, and didn't really suit his mood at all at the moment. 

For, since teaching Christine, he had come alive with a strange sort of excitement in his veins…more so even than Tora's brief acquaintance.

No. He must not think…

He did.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he felt his fingers begin to creep downwards, as if they had a will of their own.

And though he knew it would be nothing, it felt so extraordinarily as though it would actually satisfy his raging, burning need. As though his fingers could be substitute for flesh. He shivered, but could not help himself.

When he was done, he had accomplished, as he had known he would, nothing of substance in the end but sore hands and a large, slick spot on the front of his pants, fleeting swirl of pleasure over and done with before he could thoroughly enjoy it. He felt like a guilty child who had wet himself.

The shadow sighed. "It never gave me solace before," he whispered. "And why should it now?"

The black draperies, he reflected glumly, did seem to suit his mood after all.

His eyes stayed open for a long time, thinking of nothing, and finally he felt the tiredness sweep over his body, the ultimate human need for rest, and he gave himself to tortured slumber.

* * *

_He found himself kissing Christine, desperately. _

_It didn't feel real, somehow, as though her lips were made of air, and that the air around him was in fact more real than the nearly tangible girl in front of him, blushing._

_Blushing. Indeed._

_Erik turned his head away, disgusted with himself. Who would ever blush for him?_

_He turned back, staring at the Angel, the yellow-haired, blue-eyed Angel, and despite himself, he sighed._

_Christine shook her head. "Not me," she whispered, her lips, real now, or so they seemed, brushing against his ear, and Erik hissed between his teeth, mouth uncovered by the smaller mask, the one he did not wear often. "Not me," she whispered again._

_The shape dissolved beneath his hands, smoke and water, sand and air, and it was not Christine's sharply innocent features he saw in front of him, but..._

* * *

In a wretched apartment thousands of miles away, Tora, dreaming blankly, tossed a little in her bed, nearly waking her snoring aunt, and gradually her dreamlessness gave way to something far more inexplicable.

* * *

_Not Christine...instead, dark brown eyes, and a sensual half-lidded gaze as she stared at him from beneath her lashes._

"_Tora," he breathed, "You? No…I will not remember you, no, not now…"_

_She looked hurt. Her eyes lost that bewitched look and snapped to full attention. "How lovely," she said sarcastically. "After...Did you truly miss me so little, Erik?"_

_And Erik staggered backwards, a quarter of a step, still gripping her arms. "Miss you so little?" he breathed. "You've no idea, you awful chit…how I…Every waking moment for half a month I burned, and more, if I let myself…" He grabbed her closer, possessively, hungrily, buried his lips in her dark hair, and she inhaled sharply._

"_The pain…" he murmured. "Ah, the exquisite nightmare of the agony of separation… Everyone I care about, you see, goes away. But you're mine now, Tora. You're mine…"_

"_What on earth has happened to you?" she whispered._

_Erik sighed. "Oh, darling…I can't even fathom myself. I've gone and gotten myself besotted with Christine Daae…oh, Tora, how I lust for the girl…it's terrible, I tell you, terrible…"_

_Tora shrank back. "My God," she whispered. "It can't have been real, that premonition. I'm dreaming again, that's all…simply a follow-up of the other dream…where you stared at her like a predatory beast—"_

_Erik's fingers tightened upon her arms, deaf to her nearly inaudible statement. "I," he said softly, but so intensely that it made her eyes widen slightly, "have been denied pleasure. Denied," he breathed, " my whole, weary, detestable life…of…" He slid one hand over to cup her breast. _

"_This," he hissed._

_Tora's neck arched, and a small moan escaped her throat. "Erik," she whispered. "Don't…"_

_But his fingers delighted in the soft, yielding flesh through the thin material of her dress, and the sudden hardness of the very center of it, the…nipple, he thought guiltily, shivering, savoring the rush of blood to his lower regions._

"_Deny me no more…" he whispered achingly, bringing his lips to her neck, sliding his tongue along the length of her skin. Tora inhaled sharply through her teeth. _

"_Erik," she whispered, "don't…don't…"_

"_Why?" he growled into the tender space between her jaw and earlobe, the little hollow where her dark-haired head met slender neck. "Do I repulse you so?…ah, how Erik makes you shudder with his touch, but still…there is some measure of human need coursing through your veins…" His fingers danced along the side of her breast, cold bones against fiery flesh through insubstantial cloth. _

_Tora gasped, and to his sweet and shockingly sensual surprise, she appeared to be longing for a kiss, despite the horror of his face…ah, but he was hidden behind his mask and all she needed was his touch to set her aflame. No hideousness between them but what was remembered, and it had been so long that perhaps…perhaps she did not remember what he looked like behind…a desperate wish on his part._

_His fingers did not stop their caresses, and she cursed, then, the sort of curse a riverboat captain might utter, and Erik didn't know whether to be shocked at such a word or amused. It was only a dream, after all…_

_Was it?_

"_Erik, stop…"_

"_You want me to stop?" he murmured, racing his fingers along the curve of her throat, the barest touch. She hissed between her teeth. "Damn you," she whispered. "How do you work such magic with your hands?"_

"_Magic?" he purred, beginning to thoroughly enjoy himself. Such a dream…how real she felt beneath his hands…_

"_Yes, magic," she whispered. "The music…and now this…"_

"_No magic, my dear," he said softly. "Only the cravings and sufferings of a tortured almost-man…"_

"_Not almost," she said. "You _are _human, no matter what you might think…"_

"_Whatever you say," he said, "Erik thinks differently."_

"_Then think it," she said. "I care not whether you want to disparage yourself with such notions."_

"_What do you care for?" he whispered, his lips a breath away. "Do you ever care, by any chance...for me?"_

_She did her level best not to make a completely undignified whimper. "I ache for you," she whispered._

"_Indeed," he said. "And why…is that?" His fingers boldly began to slide along her thigh._

_Tora bit her lip so hard she nearly began to bleed. "Only God knows."_

"_Ah. God." he said quietly, absently. "I used to believe in God, I think…very long ago. Too long for memory to stretch. And there are things that I prefer not to…recall. Childhood piety only goes so far…"_

_She felt it, suddenly, pressed against her. He was hard. She moved against it, tempted to lift her skirts and let him take her. It was only a dream. Waking life was anything but pleasurable._

_He groaned. "Tora…" _

"_Yes, Erik?" she whispered, biting his bottom lip suddenly, making him hiss with the unexpected contact._

"_You…" He could stand it no longer. Their mouths crashed, and he devoured her sweetness, felt the yielding pressure of her lips and the silky sliding of her tongue._

"_I am dying," he said, between her lips. "I must be…"_

* * *

Two pairs of eyes opened suddenly, one in a dank underground palace, the other in a decaying apartment, and each mouth gasped for air, cursing wakefulness and the end of dreams. 


	14. Resolutions

**A/N: This chapter was written in response to a speed challenge from milegre, whose stories don't get nearly enough praise and feedback as they should. She is possibly one of the most creative writers on the site, and I thoroughly enjoy reading her unique work.**

**In response to Thornwitch's comment on Chapter 9 about Tora having no survival instincts whatsoever, I assume that's in reference to Tora's "Kill me if you dare!" when she came across the lake.**

**It was a rather reckless thing to say, assuredly, but she was being slightly sarcastic because for one thing, she was in a rather bolder mood than usual, and for another thing, she was quite certain he'd do nothing of the sort. **

**And of course there's the glaring fact that she doesn't exactly know him like we do, so there's another reason she'd say that so flippantly. **

* * *

Tora's chicken-plucking was not at all up to standard that next morning. She just barely managed to pluck nearly half the chickens that she usually did. 

It was noticed. Her wages for that day were subsequently cut by half.

Desperate, hungry, out of sorts, Tora collapsed on the bed when she and Agnes returned home and, embarrassed but nonetheless at her wits' end, she wept heartily.

She felt her aunt's hand pat her back. "There, there…" she soothed, and then asked, quietly, in a tone of regret, "Are you missing your man, Tora? I feel awful for having ripped you away…"

Tora's only response was a muffled sniff. She rolled over, eyes dark and angry and bloodshot by her crying. She refused to look at her aunt, preferring to stare broodily at a cob-webbed corner.

"I don't resent you," she said softly, "only what this has become. I am reduced to nothing here, when before, in Paris, I could fulfill myself with my dancing and my song…"

Aunt Agnes sighed. "I feel like the wicked witch, dear."

Tora slumped. "Don't. It's not your fault. Only the fault of the pickpocket. And your errant cousin, who refuses to respond to those letters you sent."

"But it _is_ my fault…" said Aunt. "I brought you here, didn't I? I came out of a shadowy past to spirit you away, to a better life, I thought, so much better than those cramped dormitories and the risqué ballet costumes revealing you onstage for lascivious old nobles to see…but all this didn't exactly turn out the way I'd hoped, to be sure." Agnes sighed again and patted Tora's shoulder. "I should have ignored that stubborn impulse of mine and simply gotten the both of us on that ship back to France, that's what I should have done. Older people are often set in their ways…"

"Yes," muttered Tora.

"You're angry, child," Agnes said. "So very angry…don't pretend you're not. And you're angry with me, specifically."

"Yes," said Tora, finally.

"Well then," said Agnes. "This is obviously doing you no good at all, being here in New York and sweating in a hot factory whilst plucking poultry…so if you want us to go back to France, then back to France we'll go."

Tora sighed with relief, hugging her aunt briefly.

"You know," said Agnes, "I must admit that the move to America was…not entirely for altruistic reasons."

Tora looked at her. "Meaning?"

"Meaning that I am quickly becoming a tired old woman," said Aunt, "and I was so very tired of France. That's why I wouldn't go back, at first, when our money was stolen and you were so adamant about packing our bags. I was so stubborn, so set on not going back to the place which had imprisoned me for years under its seductive Parisian spell, so set on forgetting what had transpired there in all the years I'd made it my home…trying to forget…that my being there had caused my sister to die alone, and her child to run away believing herself to be orphaned, alone, with not a family member in the world."

Agnes sighed. "But you are very like my sister, did you know that? A bit more temperamental, to be sure, but Addie always did have a knack for getting her way. So adamant, so opinionated…"

"Rather," Tora said, "like you."

There was silence for a moment before the two of them began to laugh, albeit a little bitterly, and while they packed their bags, a letter came.

* * *

"Breathe from your stomach, Christine." 

The ingénue complied readily. "Ah—ah—ah!" The first three notes of the simple C scale, for warm-up.

"Now," he said, " '_O, terra, addio_' from _Aida_."

"Must I?" she asked. "It is so sad a selection…and it is for more than one voice."

"I will supply the part of Radamès," he said, and wondered at the sudden smile on her face.

"You do have such a lovely voice, Angel," she murmured. "I should certainly like to hear you sing. But…do Angels feel sadness? You sound…different tonight."

Erik's lips tightened. "Do you want me to go away, Christine?"

Christine blanched. "No."

"Then…" he said, attempting to sound more gentle, though his voice betrayed him, "refrain from asking me such things. You must learn to be more obedient."

The girl stiffened a little, but sighed. "Very well, Angel. I'll not ask. But must we sing _O terra, addio_?"

"Christine," he thundered.

The girl winced. "Oh, if you insist, then. But it will put me in such a melancholy mood…"

"SING!" he shouted, covering his mouth suddenly, appalled at himself for lashing out, afraid that now she would be frightened and reject him forever, invisible or not.

Her face went white, her eyes wide, and then, she began to sing.

"That's it, Christine…" he whispered. "Forgive me, child. I am harsh, at times…" He began to sing the rich, heartbreaking tenor.

Christine came considerably alive at this, and sang with brief rapture, inspired by his heavenly voice.

Almost immediately, however, her eyes widened again, and her voice shrank, became tinny, forced, though she kept singing despite it.

Erik winced a little. "You have such potential, child, and yet you do not sing _out! _I need you to _sing with your whole soul!_"

Christine slumped. "Can't, Angel. I can't."

Erik gritted his teeth. "I will leave you for tonight…"

"No!" she said suddenly, leaping to her feet. "Don't go yet! Oh, please...I was having such a horrible day, and your voice cheered me so..."

"I must, Christine. Heaven calls me…" He winced considerably at the blasphemous lie. But God would not strike him dead, after all, for there was no God.

Erik smiled grimly at the thought. No God? Only devils? What a weary, awful world it was…but there were mortal angels, at any rate, like the lovely creature on the opposite side of the mirror, with no idea that her teacher was a monster…

Christine slumped a little. "Oh, very well, Angel. I am no one to interfere with the business of Heaven…" though he could have sworn that suspicion clouded her features for the briefest moment before he slipped away, uttering an ethereal "_Au revoir, ma petite…_"

"_Au revoir_, _mon Ange_," she responded quietly, sighing a little.

* * *

Tora looked at the address on the wrinkled envelope. 

It was a letter from Constance Parker.

Aunt Agnes' cousin.

Tora opened her mouth and shut it again. Agnes tore the note open and read it out loud.

_My dear cousin,_

_Forgive me for not responding sooner. It seems by the postmarked date that your letter requesting my help was lost in the mail for quite some time. The postal service simply must be improved…but I digress. You and your new-found niece, whom I am delighted to hear about, must come and stay with me in Boston. The colonel and I would be most happy to receive you in our home._

_I have enclosed an amount of money sufficient for your travel by train. I shall expect you soon. _

_Regards,_

_Constance_

Agnes looked up.

Tora looked back. "We could use that money to go back to France," she said softly.

"We could," said Agnes. "Or we could take two one-way train tickets to a rather luxurious house in Boston, Massachusetts, where we will mingle with high society and receive every comfort imaginable. My cousin Constance is, after all, rather rich."

Tora wrinkled her nose. "Rich…all rich people are the same. The men are lecherous, and the women disdainful. I cannot stand the wealthy…"

"Would you not enjoy the comforts and luxuries of wealth despite your professed dislike?" asked Aunt softly.

Tora snorted. "Much as I hate to admit it…of course I would. And," she sighed bitterly, "I suppose a sojourn in a large Bostonian house would be preferable to another long, cramped voyage to France…although…." She trailed off.

"You miss your man, _chérie_. I know it." said Aunt. "But think of what you can experience here! The sights, the sounds! It's all so very different from Paris, more than you could imagine!"

"Not so very different," she said. "People remain the same no matter where you go, what language you speak. People…are people."

Agnes laughed. "Oh, come, dear. Give it a chance. Give this one good try. It will be fun!"

Tora did not want to go to Boston. She wanted to go to Erik…

But the excitement in her aunt's face, and the memory of what the older woman had said before, of wanting to forget her terrible memories….Tora clenched her teeth. _By God, I'm too understanding by far. I should simply go back to France and let her go on to Boston without me…_

The word _family_ floated in her vision suddenly, visions of her dead mother, and her living aunt standing before her, and she knew then that she would torment herself to no end if she did not go to Boston with her aunt. She could not, would not, sever her last link to family ties.

"Very well," she said. "I will go. But," she stipulated, though feeling a bit like a petulant child for doing so, "that does not mean I will enjoy it."

* * *


	15. A Kind of Don Juan

The shade stood stock-still, staring.

How lovely the curve of her softly moving mouth, and how delicate her almost child-like curves.

Captivated, he watched her praying in the dim light of the _chapelle_, and he imagined that one of the prayers was for him.

How fragile and angelic her golden curls…how he longed to run them through his death-like fingers…

Dark, wavy tresses floated suddenly in front of his mind, flying and unruly, and a sultry memory of laughing eyes, wide and sometimes sorrowful, with flecks of gold floating amongst the deep brown.

He pushed the memory away, hurriedly and—for a wonder—painlessly, though he wondered again, briefly, remembering the words of a hastily penned and slightly unsatisfactory poem he had long since tucked away…

_Surely she has forgotten, fulfilled across the sea…but does she ever, in her solitude, think (even for the briefest moment)…oh, does she ever think—of me?_

* * *

_Mon cher amie Suzette,_

_I am writing you this letter in the strictest confidence. Enclosed is another letter which you must not open, but give directly to Mme. Giry, the box-keeper, and tell her it is for the Opera Ghost. She is a superstitious old dame and will do exactly as you request, if I know anything about her or the rumors at all._

_Suzette, the Opera Ghost…it is Erik! You must not speak his name to anyone, and you must make sure that this or the letter I intend for Erik does not fall into the wrong hands, for if either did, it would be his undoing—he thrives on secrecy, and wishes only to be ignored by the general populace. He has a great secret, which he wishes nobody else to know, and which I only found out by accident. _

_He would not want me to tell you, but his face, Suzette, his face…it is horrible. I cannot describe it appropriately other than to say that it is like Death himself sitting upon those skeletal shoulders. _

_But, for all his ugliness and his frequent rages, I…_

_Well. Perhaps it is better not to speak of it. Anyone else would think me mad, it's true._

_Do not tell anyone what you have read, Suzette. I am moving to Boston with Aunt Agnes, and I leave the address at the bottom of this letter. He must have forgotten all about me by now, and for good reason, for before this I have been too busy and too tired to find a reasonable solution to the problem of contacting him._

_Be that as it may, I have found new resolve, and will surely go mad without some word from him, some news. I will not be able to stand the stuffiness of Boston, I think. I miss you terribly. To a degree, I miss the unpredictable company of Erik. I even miss that little sparrow of a girl Sophie…and that is indicative of my loneliness indeed._

_I shall write you again when I have arrived in Boston._

_Take care, mon amie._

_Regards,_

_Tora Amelia Preston (forgive the formality, but I love to write my full name, now that I know it at last)_

* * *

Mme. Giry looked long and hard at the envelope handed to her by Suzette, scrutinizing it with her bright, hawk-like eyes. 

"You say it is for the Ghost?" she asked, her voice made strangely ominous by her lack of teeth, save two embedded in the soft pink gums above and one below.

Suzette nodded nervously, eager to be out of the disconcerting old woman's presence. "It is from a friend of his, a…lady," she said, unwilling to speak Tora's name and raise awkward questions.

The old dame's eyes brightened. "Ah! A lady! I knew he must keep company with one, for he bids me bring a footstool to his box sometimes."

Suzette began to have serious doubts of Mme. Giry's sanity. "Ah. Well…see…see that…he gets it," she trailed off weakly. "Please. You will do that, won't you?" she asked, her eyes darting around to search for a convenient way to escape the piercing gaze.

The feathers on the bedraggled bonnet stood straight up. "As if I would not!" she intoned imperiously, looking down her beaked nose at the suddenly diminutive ballet dancer. "He has promised to make my Meg…" she snapped her mouth shut suddenly.

Despite her unwillingness to bear the old woman's company any longer, Suzette was suddenly intrigued. "What has he promised?" she asked.

Mme. Giry bent down, making Suzette flinch. "He has promised," she whispered in an exaggerated manner of confidence, "to make my Meg…an Empress!"

Suzette nodded hastily and, muttering an inaudible goodbye, fled madly down the grand staircase, convinced that the old woman was nothing other than extraordinarily insane.

* * *

Erik, watching, would have chuckled for quite a long time had not his breath been stolen from his throat at Suzette's description of from whom the letter had been sent. 

"_It is from a friend of his, a…lady."_

Who on earth would…

Ah. Of course.

Could it be?

Invisible among shadows, he crept up silently behind Mme. Giry, throwing his voice so that it seemed to be coming from the ceiling.

"_Mame Jules."_

Mme. Giry looked up at the sound of her husband's name, a smile bursting upon her wrinkled features. "Ah, so you heard the exchange, did you not!"

"_I hear everything, Mame Jules."_

The old dame nodded sagely, the feathers on her black bonnet bobbing up and down.

"Of course. Where shall I put—"

"_Leave it there, on the banister, and walk away quickly. Do not look back, for if you do, your child Meg will never be what I promised."_

Madame Giry nodded hurriedly and placed the letter carefully on the banister, nearly tripping over her wide black skirts in a comic attempt to be away, as the Ghost had put it, "quickly."

Erik allowed himself a quiet chuckle as he slid noiselessly to the banister and reached for the letter with what he realized with annoyance to be shaking hands.

_Tora Tora Tora…_

He swallowed. _Calm yourself, you idiot,_ he thought angrily, disgusted at his own lack of self-control. What a lecher he was becoming…first Tora, and now Christine, and now Tora again…

_But Tora_, he thought smugly, imagining Christine's pure, sweet voice, _could not sing. Only dance._

A sudden memory came to him of the way she had danced that very last night of _Carmen_, and a blush suffused his deathly pale features.

_Which would you choose, if it came to it?_ the voice inside his head demanded. _Which?_

Erik shrugged it away, preferring instead the rush of nearly erotic excitement that came merely from holding her letter in his hands, from staring at the writing penned in a scrawling womanly hand, bearing only the words _The Opera Ghost_.

_It has been an eternity since I heard her speak…_

_Not that long,_ came the voice, sounding exasperated. _Merely a year and a half, and you have lived nearly fifty. More than three times either of their ages, one might add, you lecherous, perverse, ugly, hideous…_

Erik slammed the wall, making a dent in the plaster.

_Damn._

_Throw the letter away_, whispered the voice. _And put away your dreams of Christine, as well. What need have you of either? They won't love you. Ever. Pity you, perhaps…oh, everyone does…but love you? _

Erik clenched the envelope, feeling it crumple beneath the force of his grip.

_Throw it away._

Cursing, he smoothed it out upon the wall, reverently touching it with his fingers.

_Afraid to open it. Aren't you, devil?_

Gritting his teeth, he hurriedly and violently tore the envelope open, accidentally ripping the paper within, drawing from his almost-lips another foul curse.

He heard voices from down the hall. The managers…

Clenching his teeth and growling over and over a litany of "damn", he slid into the shadows and waited for them to pass by.

When they had, he glided through the shadows to his favorite trap-door and, curling his lip and making an extremely rude gesture at the distant backs of the managers, slid down to one of the passageways leading to the dank dungeon he called home.


	16. The Singular Attitude Of Correspondence

**A/N: The reason for my procrastination has been that I am not exactly what you'd call incandescently happy with certain parts of this chapter, although through extensive revision I'm finally reasonably satisfied with the overall result. It's quite long, at any rate—one of my longest to date—which should satisfy you wonderfully and make up for my previous extended absence.**

**On another note, I'm feeling extraordinarily trounced (in a good way, for I love reading her work) by stefanie bean's exponentially amazing story, Phantoms of the Past. Her delving into Leroux-canon mannerisms and psyches is so much more complex and brilliant than mine that I wither away in comparison.**

**But that's all right. The more I read, the more I write, the more I learn. And isn't that what writing's all about? **

* * *

"Why how delightful to see you, my dear cousins," Constance Parker simpered sycophantically, sounding, to Tora's ears, a bit insincere, but that was to be expected when a rich cousin was dealing with a poor one. 

"Why, Constance!" exclaimed Agnes, dropping her bags and grasping her cousin's hands, "you are quite the lady! I have not seen you since you were no higher than my thigh! And how is the dear Colonel?"

Tora smiled awkwardly at them, willing herself to disappear into the doorframe, imagining herself melting into the wood, giving Constance, who was chatting absently with Aunt while leaning against it, a splinter…

The woman was tall, younger than Tora had expected, no more than twenty-six at most, with gleaming red hair (_no doubt just left the beauty salon this morning_, thought Tora sullenly, tugging self-consciously at her own slightly matted and unkempt chestnut waves) swept up the back of her slender white neck into a graceful pile on top of her head. A smattering of freckles was the only imperfection upon her porcelain face, but it only added to her doll-like appearance.

_And now comes the quick glance, up and down my body and clothes, without moving a single muscle except those in her darting eyes, and the slight wrinkling of the nose—there. And then will come the lip-curl, so small one can barely make it out, but it is there all the same, giving her face a nearly imperceptible manner of disdain and that high, haughty, swan-like neck held at such an angle as to indicate complete superiority._

Tora smiled sarcastically, performing the same disdainful examination on Constance, predicting that it would throw her completely off guard. It did.

The haughty air disappeared, and she suddenly looked slightly disquieted. "Come in," she said suddenly. "You'll catch a chill…"

"So good of you to have us, cousin Constance," said Agnes sincerely.

"Why, it's no trouble at all," she said, smiling in a way that Tora did not like. It was the smile of the wealthy looking patronizingly at the poor.

"Your niece," the woman said suddenly to Agnes, smiling in that same, oily way at Tora, "is very quiet. Is she mute, by any chance?"

Tora's lip twitched. "No," she said softly. "I am not."

Constance pretended not to hear. "This is the guest bedroom, where you'll be staying, Agnes. And this one here, Tora, this darling little room that faces the harbor…isn't it charming?"

Tora stared at the dusty, dank little space. The bed looked as though it hadn't been slept in for years. One of the floorboards was warped and rotting.

"Charming," she said expressionlessly.

Constance clasped her hands together. "And how do you like the view?"

"Very much," said Tora, dropping her small bag onto the floor. "I thank you for your generosity."

The sarcasm was lost completely on Constance, who fluttered down the hall calling back, "Dinner is at five-o'-clock sharp, dear cousins! I shall have the servants fetch you…in the meantime, you must refresh yourselves! There is a powder room at the far end of the hall…"

Tora stomped to Agnes' bedroom.

Her aunt looked up from unpacking. "Tora?"

The former dancer stared at her, gritting her teeth.

"What," she said, "in heaven's name…possessed you to bring us here?"

* * *

_Erik…_

_Forgive me for not writing. It has been an uphill battle, to say the least, living here. _

_Aunt and I have little money, for it was all stolen the very first day and we were forced to work for more in awful conditions, but I shan't waste paper complaining about my circumstances. At any rate, Aunt's cousin Constance has invited us to stay in Boston with her, and though I cannot say I look forward to it, I am going for Aunt's sake, for she has not seen her cousin in a long time. _

_I have been procrastinating. It was not that I did not wish to write to you. It was that I simply had no idea of what to say._

_Erik, I…_

_I wish I were home._

_I dreamed of you once, six months ago or so. It was an odd, realistic dream._

_Even odder was the one I had just before I departed, but…never mind it. It was silly. Pseudo-prophetic, I suppose one might call it._

_I don't know why I ramble on. I should just tell you that I…_

_I…_

("Well, what?" hissed Erik, gritting his teeth as he strained to read the mangled paper in the dim candlelight. "Out with it, girl…")

_I wish I could see you again._

(Erik sat back in his chair, letting out his breath with a hiss.)

_I know you abhor prattle. Forgive me for sounding like a nervous schoolgirl. I am missing you, terribly now that it is so late and dark and Aunt has gone to sleep. I sometimes imagine that I am in your cavern, and you are teaching me to play that grand, ornate pipe organ, for you never did while I was there, and I dearly wanted to learn. _

_I can hardly believe that my hands have not torn this disjointedly nonsensical letter up and begun another, but it is too late to start over, and my hand is shaking from weariness. This pen is scratchy and the ink is nearly gone, and Aunt and I depart by boat to Boston tomorrow. I am leaving your letter in the care of Suzette, who knows a little of you and will keep silent, rest assured._

_I hope you are well, Erik…_

_I hope I shall be coming back to France to be a dancer again, but my luck would indicate otherwise. _

_I will be back, however, of that I am sure. I hate New York, and am not reassured that Boston will be much better._

_Watch for me, and surprise me from some shadowy corner as you seem to enjoy doing, if you are still haunting the Opera when I return._

'_Til then, mon ami,_

_Tora Amelia Preston_

* * *

In the ballet dormitories, Suzette sat fully costumed on her bed, re-reading her own letter from Tora, wondering who on earth the girl had gotten herself tangled up with. 

_The Opera Ghost…_

"What nonsense," she murmured. "Imagine a grown man playing such childish games…"

"Come again?" said Sophie, who was twirling her hair around her finger in front of a mirror.

"Nothing," Suzette said quickly. "Thinking aloud, that is all…"

"Oh," said Sophie, turning back to her mirror. "I do that all the time."

Suzette rolled her eyes and looked again at Tora's letter.

_Erik_, she thought. _What a strange name…_

"Tell me," she said off-handedly to the golden-haired girl who was bent over lacing up her ballet flats a few feet away, "do you believe in ghosts, Daaé?"

The young woman looked up sharply, shaking her head, making her hair ripple a little, the curls shivering. "No." she said simply. "I used to believe in the Korrigans, when I was a little girl, but those are different. However, Angels exist, of that I know for certain, but ghosts are not real, I don't suppose."

Suzette smiled slightly, incredulously cocking an eyebrow. "Angels?"

"I know one personally," said Christine, rather dreamily, without thinking.

There was a chorus of laughter from the girls around her.

"Quiet," snapped Christine, startled out of her reverie. "Quiet. He _is _real, and he…"

She suddenly clamped her mouth shut, wiping a hand furiously across her eyes.

"Tell us," chanted little Jammes, making it a taunt. "Tell us, tell us."

"Tell us, tell us, tell us," shouted the rest of the ballet girls in unison, shrieking with laughter.

Suzette shook her head, muttering, "Ignorant little sparrows," and left the room, intending to flirt a little with Carolus Fonta before the entourage had to be onstage for the first act.

"Never mind!" shouted Christine angrily. "Never mind it! He was a dream, that is all…a dream!" She stomped her foot, making the chant grow softer and softer until it finally died away, and the snickers ceased as the ballet rats went about finishing lacing up each other's corsets and pulling on their costumes.

* * *

Deep below, in the dimly lit and cavernous bedroom, Erik, still staring at the letter, fought off the urge to laugh and weep and scream. 

_Well? What did you think? That she would declare her love for you? _

_Foolish, blinded…_

He put his hands to his head.

_There is_, he thought back at the voice, _a promising sentence or two. She said she wished to see me again. _

_Oh, what joy, what rapture, _sneered the voice. _You would love that, wouldn't you? To "surprise her in a dark corner". You'd probably ravish the poor child, in your blind, pent-up lust…_

_Damn you to hell_, thought Erik. _Leave me in peace…_

Surprisingly, the nagging, awful voice went.

His watch chimed, suddenly.

Erik let the letter in his hands drop, flutter, fall.

_Good God, look at the time._

He was due for an appearance in Box Five, to watch _Faust_. And after, a lesson with Christine.

_Christine._

_Christine._

The name pounded in his head, hurting his brain with its very intensity.

He felt almost as though he had been unfaithful to her, by being so enmeshed in Tora's letter, which was ridiculous of course.

Sweeping his cape from the hanger bad-temperedly, he stalked out of his bedroom in a foul, confused mood, and, to top it off, he was not quite sure why.

* * *

In the semi-darkness behind a set piece, Carolus Fonta kissed the tips of Suzette's fingers, making her turn crimson and give a most undignified giggle, and then he whispered, "Time to go, _chérie…_the audience beckons, and we don't want to disappoint…" 

"No indeed," said Suzette, smiling widely.

They came out from behind the set piece, acting as though nothing more had occurred than a casual conversation. Suzette, usually not so susceptible to embarrassment, turned a shade more crimson than previous when she saw the rats grinning their fiendishly girlish little grins and whispering and giggling, pointing at them both.

"Quiet!" she snapped, knocking Sophie's hand away from her mouth. "Take your places!"

"You're not the ballet mistress," Jammes said sullenly, pursing her lips and scuffing the floor experimentally with her toe shoe.

"Non, that is true," Suzette said, "but I am older than you, Jammes. And you, Sophie, and…"

"Quiet! Quiet! Quiet!" chattered the girls. "It's about to begin!"

They took their respective places in the wings as the curtains opened to reveal a full house, shimmering and restless.

* * *

High above, in the Comte de Chagny's private box, a young man, fair-haired and strangely feminine for the shy innocence of his boyish face, sat by his older brother's side, watching the opera with slack attention, until the golden-haired girl who played the boy Siebel appeared on the stage and began, tremulously and with scant feeling, to sing. 

"Christine?" he whispered, hardly daring to believe it.

"Who?" muttered Philippe, his thick mustache quivering with incredulity.

Raoul blushed furiously. "You remember," he whispered. "I knew her when I was in Perros…she and I were only children…I told you of her."

"Oho," said Philippe knowingly, stifling a chuckle, for he remembered well the fervent, boyish tales of the little girl by the sea. "And are you so sure that it is she?" he whispered behind his hand, winking at the fat old dame in the next box who had just given them a sour look. She promptly went scarlet and, eyes wide as saucers, turned her head hurriedly to watch the opera unfold upon the stage.

Philippe grinned behind his mustache, chuckling deep within his throat, muffling the sound in the palm of his nonchalantly placed hand, elbow resting on the front of the box.

"Absolutely," muttered Raoul. "It is her voice—the voice which soared to such angelic heights when we were young! But…it is dulled, now…"

He leaned forward, his brow knitting, the fair eyebrows coming together in an almost cherubic attitude of confusion.

Several young women in the audience, glancing up at his box, collectively sighed.

* * *

Christine slumped in her dressing-room. "I tried, Angel," she said. "I even went to dress with them in the dormitories, thinking perhaps some of them would, amongst all their useless chatter, talk to me, but they only laughed when I told them…" 

"Told them what, child?" Erik asked suddenly, his voice a little sharper than usual.

Christine's head jerked. "I told them," she said softly, "that I knew an Angel. I didn't really mean to, you see. But they laughed."

Erik's breath came in short, inaudible gasps. Her eyes, the wide, blue, crystal eyes, were swimming. One fat, hot tear plopped onto the carpet, making a dark dot. She wiped furiously at her eyes, cheeks scarlet with embarrassment. "Oh, I shouldn't cry," she said. "They don't matter one bit. All that matters is you, and Mama Valerius."

He tried to speak, but found he couldn't. He was too busy forcing his arms away from the thin glass separating them, arms that longed to fling aside the flimsy contraption after deft fingers would work the mechanism making it spin, to be at her side in three steps and wipe those awful, awful tears away.

He did not care that they had laughed about him—all the better, for they would never connect the Angel of Music and the Opera Ghost if they did not believe that the first did in fact exist.

He burned, fiercely, that they had laughed at _her_. At the lovely, fragile creature, and they had made her weep.

And he could not bear to see that beautiful, porcelain angel cry.

His voice, if he tried to use it, would give him away, he knew.

Christine's lip quivered, and she bit it nervously.

Erik's breath caught in his throat, staring at her, wanting to enclose that quivering lip between his own.

_Such as I have._

And in his feverishly idyllic imaginary existence, he would be perfect, handsome, her savior, one hand entwined in her hair and the other wiping away the rolling wetness on her cheeks as he explored her mouth with his t--

_Dear God!_

Erik stumbled back, appalled at himself.

"Child," he rasped, cursing the betrayal of his vocal chords, "pay them no heed, do you hear? I am going back to heaven now, but I will return. Do not give away your secret yet, Christine, for you have much still to—"

"Angel!" she cried, flinging her arms out toward the ceiling. "Do not leave me, not now!" she groaned in despair.

The tears flowed freely, making him moan with desperate longing to be at her side, the sound of which he quickly stifled by putting his fist in his mouth.

"I…must," he whispered, his voice raspier yet. "Heaven…calls me. Be strong, Christine, for me."

Her eyes glimmered.

"I will," she whispered. "I will…I will try."

"_Au revoir_," he gasped, managing to at least make his voice sound slightly ethereal, and fled down the passageway, cursing under his breath and tearing at his hair, wondering for the thousandth time if he was going mad.

* * *


	17. The Madness Begins

**A/N: When re-reading my tale to check for accuracy, I realized, which made me feel quite foolish, a discrepancy in Suzette's name. In the last few previous chapters, for whatever reason, I began calling her Suzanne instead. This has now been fixed.**

**Also, my profound thanks to MJ Mod for correcting some of my grammatically errant French. :) **

* * *

Constance was hosting a high-society dinner. 

Tora was looking forward to it. Just as she would have looked forward to, say, having Sophie's smelly stockings shoved up her nose.

"Aunt," she said, "must we go?"

"We are Constance's guests," said Agnes. "And just think, child! You'll be introduced to so many fine people…"

"I don't want to meet fine people," said Tora. "I want…"

She thought briefly of the Opera House, and Suzette, and…

_The shadow loomed over her, eyes blazing within the confines of a dark mask._

Tora shook herself, shivering.

_The skull with skin, and pits for eyes, an awful gaping void where no nose graced the terrible face, stared at her with equal horror to that which was consuming her veins._

"Child?"

_Their lips met in a fever-dream._

"Tora?"

_Tora Tora Tora…_

_The thought raced through his head as he grasped her letter in his hands._

Tora blinked. What was she seeing? What images were these, so foreign, so strange and unfamiliar?

_He stared at the porcelain-doll-like creature on the other side of the glass, and sang a scale._

"_We shall astonish Paris…"_

She felt dizzy, weak.

Something flooded her veins, something terrible and knowing and all-encompassing, and at that moment Tora knew that she must return to her home, no matter what the cost.

"Aunt," she said gently. "I…"

"Constance is going to take us shopping this afternoon for a party dress apiece," said Agnes. "She is being very generous, you know."

"We are a conversation piece and a goodwill feather in her cap," said Tora shortly. "Nothing more."

Agnes sighed.

"How is it you profess to know so much about the rich, child?"

"I've seen them," whispered Tora. "I've been leered at by their young men and their old men, and I have seen more feminine noses wrinkled at my presence than I can count. I've heard stories from the other girls in the ballet that have distant relatives that are rich…"

"Nonsense," said Agnes, but it was obvious she knew exactly what Tora was talking about.

"You pretend, because she is dear to you," said Tora. "We are, however, I assure you, not dear to her in the slightest. We're more a nuisance than anything else."

Agnes was silent.

"Besides," said Tora. "I already have a dress. Four of them, in fact."

With that, she turned on her heel and stalked out of the room, feeling like a petulant child for doing so and cursing herself for it, but feeling, desperately, in her bones that _something was wrong…_

* * *

Erik heard the excitement in her voice. He saw the tell-tale sparkle in her beautiful blue eyes, and he saw the shivering way in which she shook her lovely, flowing golden hair. 

"Child," he said. "You are different."

His voice was vibrant, strong as he could make it, though soft and stern, but his heart was inexplicably hollow. What had happened to excite her so?

And why should it fill him with dread to see her thus so animated?

"_Ange_," she said giddily. "You cannot believe what has happened! Tonight I saw…I saw an old friend…his name is Raoul de Chagny, a Vicomte with whom I used to play when we were very young…I could not believe my eyes…he is so changed…but not so very much…and, oh, Angel!" she sighed without thinking, speaking her thoughts aloud as they spilled from her mind, "He is so very handsome!"

Erik's stomach constricted. He bent over, clutching at his middle, feeling as though he were about to scream, lose the contents of his belly, and die in one, slow, forever-breath.

_Oh, Angel, he is _so very handsome!

_Monstrous child,_ his mind gasped. _Wicked, unassuming devil of a naïve, blind girl…oh, traitor…_

His voice was silent, for what seemed to Christine to be an extraordinarily long time.

Her crystalline orbs searched the ceiling, as if for a glimpse. She looked nonplussed.

"Angel," she said. "What on earth is the matter?"

Erik's breath came in inaudible gasps. He put a hand over his pounding, throbbing heart, pulsing with hatred for her handsome _old friend._

_But he is not old. He is young. Another trait you lack, dear Erik…_

His breath hissed between his teeth.

Christine fidgeted. "Have I said something to offend you?" she asked in a rather smaller voice than usual.

Erik fought off the urge to laugh hysterically, to throw back his head and laugh and laugh and roar with laughter until he wept and would fall to the floor with weeping, consumed and racked with torments beyond anything that the poor dear child on the other side of the glass could conceive within her wildest, most treacherous nightmares.

And then, he thought of something so horrid, so wicked, so…simplistic, that it astounded him completely.

His mouth opened. "Well, child," he breathed, "if you must bestow your heart on earth, then there is nothing for me to do than to _go back to heaven._"

Christine was silent.

"Forever," he added, slightly ashamed at himself for taking a rather fiendish delight in imagining her reaction.

She shot to her feet. "No!"

The eyes bulged with tears, her mouth slack, arms open, pleading.

Erik closed his eyes against the image, willing himself not to feel.

_You will be mine, foolish child, petulant creature, _he mind-whispered, relishing the exquisiteness of seething imagination, though part of him was abhorrent, shocked, screaming for reason instead of blind hate and anguish.

He let the rage course through him, a cleansing sea of dark, broiling satisfaction, disregarding rational thought completely. It was simply not as…enjoyable to be rational.

He imagined himself omnipotent, a god, a dark, hideous god, with power to shake the earth and tear his enemies into bits that scattered into dust.

To take what he wanted, without regard or consequence.

_You will be mine, Christine…mine, oh, mine!...simply because _I _wish it so._

_And I will make you see, my darling, beyond this awful shell, and I will make you love me…_

* * *

"Tora," said Agnes, "what on earth are you doing?" 

"Packing," whispered Tora, shivering and feeling ill, seeing unfamiliar images tumbling like stream-water over and over her trembling mind.

_Blazing yellow eyes, and a tortured scream, tears dripping unbidden, soaking white fingers on white keys, and there was crumpled, inked-up music spread all over the floor…_

"Tora," said Agnes gently.

"I refuse to stay one more minute…" began Tora.

"Tora," Agnes repeated, more softly.

"I have to go home," gasped Tora. "I must…"

"How will you get home?" Agnes asked.

There was silence, for what seemed eternity.

"I….I….don't know," said Tora, deflating.

Suddenly a memory bubbled up, from the near-forgotten depths.

"_I keep good track of the time." he intoned lazily. "A man of my…wealth…can afford a good pocket-watch."_

_He took it out of his waistcoat, briefly, to show her._

_Tora raised an eyebrow. "Gold?"_

"_Naturally."_

The girl's eyes snapped open. _I could write…and ask him…for money._

_But to what end? He hasn't even answered my last letter…_

Tora sighed.

"I'll stay," she said softly. "For now. Until I find the means…Aunt, I cannot stay here for long. I cannot."

Agnes was silent, and still.

"Thank you for…what you have tried to do, for me," said Tora gently. "I…you don't know how much it meant to me, to find a family member from a past I thought had disappeared…"

Agnes' expression was unreadable.

_My sister's child, my make-believe daughter…lost all over again?_

"Well," she said softly. "If you must go…only…"

"I know you want to stay here," said Tora. "I can go alone. It's all right."

"But it's _not_," said Agnes, the first sign of emotion bleeding through, "You'll…there's…"

"Ravishers and murderers and all manner of ill-favored men," Tora said. "Is that what worries you so?"

"Yes," said Agnes. "Very much so…"

Tora sighed. _Could do with an escort…_

The thought came, and went again. _No. He'd never do it._

_He'd never leave the Opera House. Especially not to travel all this way under the scrutiny of so many eyes, so many faces…_

Her hands trembled. _I wonder if he would._

_There's no harm in asking, at any rate. But…oh, Erik._

She remembered the way he got angry over simple things, his unpredictability, his…

_I don't give a fig for his unpredictability. I'm writing it._

Tora turned to Agnes. "There might be a solution to the problem…if he consents."

"Who?" Agnes queried. Then understanding blossomed. "Your man, eh?"

Tora blushed. "He's not mine, Aunt," she muttered. "He belongs to nobody but himself."

"Indeed," Agnes said, laughing with a toss of her head, a gesture that reminded Tora with a stomach-wrenching jolt of her mother, some wispy, vague memory of her mother laughing just like that…

"It doesn't matter," she said, gritting her teeth against the wave of nausea that permeated her body, for thoughts of her mother inevitably led to the memory of the beautiful, lifeless, waxy face in the…the…

"Tora, dear," Agnes said, alarmed. "Are you all right?"

"No," she gasped. "But I will be. It will pass…it always does…oh, _God_…"

She fell to her knees on the floor, clutching her stomach.

"I might retch," she whispered. "Is there a…"

"Here," Agnes said quickly, handing her an empty chamber-pot.

"Lovely," Tora said, grimacing.

She promptly released the contents of her meager breakfast into the pot, and fell back from it with distaste, shivering.

"Forgive me," she whispered. "It…never mind."

Agnes stood, at a loss. "What?" she asked. "What was it? Are you ill? Should I send for—"

"No," said Tora. "Sometimes when I remember things, I feel dizzy. And ill. But it goes away…"

She sighed, picking herself up off the floor. "I'll go to the party, I suppose," she said. "As I'm going to be here for a little while longer. It will take time for the letter to reach him, and for him to send a reply…"

Agnes clasped her hands. "I'm glad of it. That you're going to the party," she said quickly, when Tora glanced at her quizzically.

"Come on," she said. "We've got to get you dressed and spruced…"

Tora laughed in spite of herself, still feeling slightly weak. "If you can tame my hair…"

Agnes held up a clump of Tora's waves in her hand, eyeing it with scrutiny. "Oh, don't worry," she said. "Any hair can be tamed with the proper hand to guide it. They won't even recognize you when you come down to dinner!" she said gleefully, laughing with her niece as they made their way down the hall to the powder room.

* * *

Erik read and re-read the worn, fading letter in the torn envelope for the thousandth time, and again put his hand to paper to try and word a reply, but the words refused to come. 

_What would I say? What can I possibly…_

He put his ravaged head in his hands, wishing for tears to water his burning, fevered eyes, but they had all been spent an hour ago or more.

_The broken. The forgotten. The unloved._

_And it will always be this way, no matter what sorcery or magic you use to try to stop it._

* * *


	18. Wait A While

**M/N: We, the embarrassed, the ever-loyal but at-our-wits'-end Muses, apologize profusely for what seems to us to be our authoress's apparent lack of concern for your rabid addiction to her—dare we say it?—rather mediocre tale. College is wonderful, though increasingly difficult, and, to our great disgust, she has actually landed herself a BOYFRIEND. This would not be so bad. However, he has, to our complete horror, become her _fiancé_! We cannot express to you the panicked nightmarish whirl of our days since his proposal. We are at a loss to dissuade her. She is, if possible, even more in love with this "Jacob" person than Erik himself. It is truly shocking to behold. **

**At any rate, she has, as you can imagine, been extraordinarily busy, and her laptop has been broken since May. **

**As a result, she is now using her student account on the on-campus computers to save her work and you can duly expect more where this came from. Bully for her, we say, but we're still plotting how to discreetly kill Jacob. O.G. says Punjab, Montoya the sword, and the vampires…well, you know.**

**We apologize again for the monstrous delay.**

**Sincerely,**

**Messrs. O.G., Montoya, Pointe du Lac, Holmes, de Lioncourt, Scotsman, and Beast.**

* * *

The young man stared. It was a vision, surely, that had come through the high-arched entryway from the more feminine parlor to the elegant dining room. 

Silver glittered upon the tables, but more glittering still, to his mind, was the young lady in the entryway, eyes cold—but so deep!—with smoothly wavy chestnut hair piled atop her head, a pink satin dress adorning what must have been a dancer's frame.

Silence reigned at the head table. Several male pairs of eyes had drifted from the beautiful but snooty hostess to the new arrival in the entryway.

The girl shifted, eyes freezing the life from the young man's bones, looking distinctly uncomfortable in her finery and determined to make the entire room pay for it.

_The Eye,_ she thought. _So many of them._

She was tempted to scorn the offer of a chivalrously pulled-out chair, but accepted it in spite of herself.

"My word, Constance," said one of the foppishly handsome sergeants sitting nearby, "aren't you going to introduce this lovely little sprite?"

Tora started at the flippant words. The last thing she would bear to hear was Constance's oily, patronizing voice oozing the words, "May I present my cousin…Tora Amelia Preston…honored by her presence, to be sure…"

Eyes closed. How insincere would be the phrase! How tortuous would be the evening! No…she would stop the red-haired sycophant in her tracks.

"Margot," she said. "You may all call me…Margot."

Both Constance and Agnes twitched involuntarily. "What deceitful impropriety," began Constance, but Tora gave her a look that could have frozen, at an impulse, a thousand miles or more of blazing Saharan sand.

The hostess faltered, her mouth shaking.

"Why, Constance," said a gentleman at her right, "whatever do you mean?"

"She means nothing," said Tora. "Nothing at all."

The look in Constance's eyes said she would pay for it, somehow, but—just imagine, the horrid woman was actually frightened of a girl not ten years her junior…and as a direct result, did not speak a word to the contrary.

The pink-clad Tora smiled at her tiny—but enormously, viciously satisfying—victory. _I'll soon begone, at any rate. What does it matter?_

Talk resumed, silver clattered, crystal clinked. Tora closed her eyes against the sounds.

The young man who had been staring at her, the one who had offered the chair, timidly, hesitantly, tapped her sleeve.

"What is it?" she snapped, immediately regretting it. _My God, this isn't like me at all, is it?_

He started back in his chair, hand whipping back to his side involuntarily. "I beg your pardon," he mumbled. "I'm dreadfully sorry…but I…"

"You what?" she sighed, attempting to inject some kindness into her tone—but every nerve was stretched to the breaking point. She was not one of these people. She did not belong—and, with an attitude that would, despite her aversion, have surprised her a year ago, nor did she want to belong—be it ever so financially rewarding.

If there were persons with such lucre that acted more like the poor she'd known, back home—perhaps, then, she would be tempted to join the wealthy's ranks, but this? Heaven, God, all His angels forbid!

"You are…" the young man began, and cleared his throat, while Tora jumped a bit—she had nearly forgotten him. "Forgive me my boldness, but your accent is…quite charming."

To his surprise, rather than purring an elegant, "Thank you," Tora completely ignored him.

_That _was his attempt? She'd heard—and scorned—much more polished remarks. Such an inanely desperate comment was not even worth responding to.

_My accent? Why would he give a fig for my accent? _

"Forgive me," he mumbled, his face resembling one of the cook's beets, and hunched over his food with a despondent expression upon his face.

"What is your name?" she asked, feeling a thread of pity.

"My name?" he stammered, dropping his spoon. Several eyes glanced in his direction, but flickered back to the candle 'round which they flocked like moths. Constance basked in the attention, married or not, flirting both subtly and openly with a few of the handsomest. Tora choked back her despise. _A good thing for her that the Colonel's on active duty._

"Yes," she said. "Your name, monsieur."

"It is…it is…" he fumbled, adoration scrambling his thoughts. "It is…"

"Never mind it, then," she said, stabbing a piece of chicken and cramming it quite inelegantly into her mouth.

"I…" He was at a loss for words.

"I'm poor, you know," she said. "These dresses were given to me by a rich friend."

"Ah," he said, still staring at her. "A friend?"

"Yes," she said conspiratorially. "While I was sojourning at the Opera as a dancer, you see."

"The Opera?" he asked blankly.

"Garnier," she sighed, rolling her eyes and shoving a red potato slice past her lips. Nerves and annoyance were making her flippant, cruel, as if a facsimile of her voice and frame were floating outside of herself. "Don't you know _anything?_"

"Are you always this rude?" he asked suddenly.

She glanced at him, twinges of guilt assaulting her. "No," she said. "I hate it here. Forgive me for being so snappish, but you're annoying me."

The young man sat back in his chair, face radiating with hurt and embarrassment.

Tora felt, all at once, completely ashamed. He was a good boy, after all, it seemed, and she was sharpening her unused claws upon his innocent candor, when they should have been saved for one much more deserving of a verbal lashing.

"You never did tell me your name," she said softly, humiliation tinging her tone.

"Patrick," he said, looking at his hands. "Patrick Donnelly."

"Irish," she said.

"Yes," he murmured, glancing at the pink form beside him, eyelashes quivering with suppression.

"Ah," she said. "I thought so. Aunt knew an Irishwoman in New York with a cousin by that name."

Silence stagnated.

Tora was lost in thought, a potato hanging from her upraised fork, lips half-open. Patrick gazed in utter admiration.

"I've got to catch a boat soon," she mused. "Do you know any that leave for Paris?"

"No," he stammered. "But—you're going alone?"

"Possibly," she said. Hope fluttered in his chest, until she bluntly continued, "Aunt Agnes is loath to leave Boston."

"Oh," he said. "Would it be possible to withdraw for a moment? For a walk in the garden?"

Tora's lip twitched.

"To get away," he said. "I don't like it much here myself…"

She sighed. "Very well, Patrick," she said, offering him her hand.

"Oh, no," he whispered. "We can't possibly go together. They'd talk, you see…"

"Yes," she said tiredly. "Wouldn't they."

"Withdraw—say you wish to freshen up—and I will say I need some air, or something silly of that sort—"

Tora rolled her eyes. "You would think we were secret lovers, Patrick."

The boy resembled a beet again.

Tora stood, smiling a little. "I wish to go…freshen up," she said. A few eyes flicked towards her, but none paid her much attention. Well, Aunt smiled, but that was Aunt.

She shrugged, quitting the room, feeling more male eyes upon her exit than simply her lovesick admirer.

_Oh, disgust, take root and wither my frame. I wish sometimes that I were ugly…like…_

That thought she halted before it bore fruit. Sick shame crept up her stomach, encircling her waist with thick bands of remorse.

The thought took its course anyway, crashing down upon her tortured brain with vengeful force.

* * *

_Tora,_

_I am sending you money. I do not wish you to return to this squalid horror, however. Find a place, I tell you, a comfortable place, where you might live alone and none will harm you. Your dreams of the Opera are folly. The Opera is nothing but a tomb, a nightmarish tomb that will swallow you alive 'til you are bent and old and good for dancing no longer. Then it will spit you out like a monstrous mouth, or perhaps you might get employed in Mme. Giry's position, a lowly, three-toothed, gossiping box-keeper who nobody pays any attention to and nobody cares about, except perhaps her puling little daughter. Lovely, eh?_

_Forgive me, dear, for taking so long in sending correspondence. But Erik always wonders why you would want any sort of communication from this corpse, entombed inside a sepulchre of his own making._

_I am off to see my darling little Christine, the newest spark of life within this dreary ruin. I teach her to sing, you see, and she…oh, no matter, Erik is afraid he will get angry; he is already becoming angry, and has almost torn up your money in his rage. That would never do, would it, my little chestnut sparrow?_

_I ache to hear you. But you must not return. It would not suit you, in the end._

_I remain your obedient servant,_

_Erik_

_P.S. If you use these francs to travel back to Paris, I shall strangle you._

* * *

"I am a seeker," whispered Tora, wandering in the garden, not caring whether the boy came or not. 

Rich, wet grass. She touched it, inhaled it. She wanted to lie upon it, and would have if her apparel had been bought by Constance, but Erik had given her this dress.

_Wait a while. Only a while._

"I will wait another month," she said out loud, and whispered, "But no more."


	19. Infatuation

**A/N: Well, everything seems to be going swimmingly. Jacob is doing well and this tale is celebrating over 5500 hits.**

**Also, The Opera Wench's first birthday has come and gone, which makes me realize just how slow I am at chipping away at this story piece by piece. To think that I had originally planned to finish this beast before I even left for school—seven months ago!**

**At any rate, I am overwhelmed by the affectionate praise. I haven't read some of your own stories in a very long time. I promise my reviews—and more updates—will come when I have the time. I barely have any time to write or read these days.**

* * *

"Mlle. Margot?" 

The voice startled her out of her silent reverie, shocked to find another human being where she stood.

"Oh," she said. "Patrick."

The boy blushed again. "I have something to discuss with you," he said, gripping the lace that spilled from his sleeves as if it were a crocodile he were wrestling. His hands were nearly bloodless from the strain.

"I…your journey," he stammered. "Might you not need…an escort?"

Tora's head whipped around, her hand fluttering to her mouth in an effort to contain the sudden bubble of laughter that threatened to pour forth. "An…an escort?" she murmured, the laughter being so suppressed that it merely manifested itself as an ordinary hiccup.

"Forgive me," she said. "Too much wine, I think." Her eyes squeezed shut, hiccupping again.

"My parents wouldn't miss me," he said quickly. "I'd lie. I'd tell them I was going to a university in France, or something of that sort…do they have universities in France?" he asked suddenly.

Tora looked at him as though he were a particularly disgusting spot of mold on an otherwise perfectly good slice of bread.

"Of course they do," he said, cheeks turning the color of ripe cranberries. "I'm so nervous, you see…"

"Patrick," she said, exasperated. "You haven't even known me for the space of two hours."

His cheek twitched, and she could have sworn that his rather succulent bottom lip was about to begin quivering.

_SUCCULENT?_

It took all of Tora's energy to keep from slapping herself. Yes, the boy had rather beautifully-shaped lips, and penetratingly green eyes, _and_ his reddish-blond hair combined with a smattering of freckles was rather endearing, but he was so extraordinarily irritating that it rendered him completely unattractive. Besides, he rather reminded her of a ferret.

"I am waiting," she said between her teeth, "for a month or so before…"

"Perfect," he said. "I'll…"

"No," she said. "You won't."

Patrick flinched.

Tora sighed. "You should know," she said. "My real name is Tora. Margot is my stage name."

She instantly regretted this—if only for the fact that he looked so intently fascinated and infatuated that it seemed, for an absurd moment, as though he might faint.

"How old are you, boy?" she asked.

He flinched at _boy_ but straightened his back. "Nineteen," he said.

"Oh," she said, feeling a bit foolish. "So am I." _Well…almost._

He had a rather sweet smile.

If not for the fact that it smacked of smugness.

_And _he reminded her of a ferret.

That was very important to remember.

"So," he said. "Willing to free me from my drudgery-filled existence?

She gave a sickly smile. "Perhaps," she sighed. "Though your excuse to your parents had better be credible, or else they might hunt me down and arrest me for kidnapping."

"Kidnapping," he scoffed. "How on earth…"

"By my seductive charms," she cooed, drifting closer. "I can just see it now…headlines screaming, 'Wealthy young son of soldier debauched by Parisian temptress!' Oh, the horror!"

Patrick gulped.

Tora grinned. "You _could _just say that you were planning to study opera…"

"They'd never allow _that_," he said. "Never."

Tora shrugged. "Suit yourself," she retorted. "Dance, perhaps?"

He made a face.

"_I'm _a dancer," she said, pretending to be hurt. "Shall I show you?"

It was only then that she realized she was having entirely too much fun taking advantage of his puppy-like infatuation by being a complete and utter flirt.

_Merde._

* * *

The Opera Ghost was walking down the street like normal men. But nobody knew it, did they? 

He touched his false nose to make sure it was steady, eyes darting.

"Did Erik really send that letter?" he whispered to himself, causing several people to give him a wide berth.

Well. Wid_er._

Morbid curiosity made him pause, against his better nature, to glance at his reflection in a shop window.

Sunken eyes, lipless mouth. Nose was looking wonderful, though.

He tipped his top hat to his own reflection, though he was tempted to spit. That would never do for the folk inside the shop. They'd think him some sort of…cantankerous madman…

The laugh that came from his insides was so explosive that he had to hide in a deserted alleyway to let it be complete. The streets were crowded, but they'd clear well enough for a maniacally laughing corpse, wouldn't they? Besides, his nose had come half-off.

This sudden realization made him nearly _scream_ with laughter, imagining the priceless faces of the Parisian populace at seeing a well-dressed skeleton walking nonchalantly down the street, whistling perhaps, nose hanging at a skewed angle from a gaping hole.

The laughter turned to weeping, and he cried and laughed, cried and laughed, reduced to a near-crawl down the alley.

* * *

Christine, in her dressing-room, wrung her hands. _Was _the voice jealous, as Mamma Valerius had said? She dared not ask him. It seemed like such a disrespectful question. 

But why would an Angel be jealous of anybody?

Forcing this sacrilegious thought from her head, she forced her mind to dwell on more important things. The Angel had promised, for instance, that she would sing the part of Marguerite on her nineteenth birthday. It would be less than a fortnight, then…but _could _she do it?

"_Child._"

The voice breathed, flooding her with strength, warmth.

"_Do you still bestow your heart on earthly pleasures, or shall I forswear Heaven in order to teach you?_" the voice queried, thundering.

"Forswear?" she gasped, horrified that an Angel would consider such a thing—at the same time, some bright, electric thread of pleasure shot through her veins at the thought that for her, he would actually forsake the wonder and beauty of Heaven in order to...oh, no, don't think of that. "No, never forswear it, Angel," she said quickly, though her mind had already filled, unbidden, with images of her Angel as a man—she felt almost sick from the shame and delirious pleasure which coursed through her blood. "But I…I…I _do_ want you to teach me."

"But what of your _friend_?" the voice asked, sounding perfectly ordinary but for the thread of soft malice wound through its rich chords. "Shall you—"

"He is just _that_, Angel—an old friend!" she said quickly, eager to pacify the voice. "I don't want to marry anybody—you know I don't." _Except perhaps you._

She closed her eyes against it. God would surely strike her dead if she continued this utterly blasphemous train of thought.

The voice was silent.

"You are telling the truth, Christine?" it asked, soft, compelling. "You feel nothing for him, then? _Other than friendship?_"

"No, nothing," she affirmed, though her heart suddenly trembled, fearing a lie. "I swear it."

"_Good,_" the voice purred, sending a sleepy, contented feeling through her whole body. "_You are a good girl, Christine._"

And as the voice threaded through her, she felt, through every fiber of her being that she _was_ a good girl. The Angel was not jealous! He was pleased. Life was lovely. She felt as though her head was floating, oddly, as though she were in some sort of trance.

"_I shall not teach you anything today,_" continued the voice. "_But I want you to be well-prepared…for tomorrow._"

"Yes," she said sleepily. "Of course."

"I leave you now," the voice said, quite normally. "Tomorrow your training will be quite rigorous, in preparation for your triumph! And so it shall be, till the triumph is complete! Are you _willing_ to have a great triumph, Christine? Are you willing to make happy your beloved Angel?"

"Oh, yes," she murmured. "Of course."

"_Good_," said Erik, withdrawing, and leaving a willful parting shot. "_Do not betray me_."

"Never," she said rapturously.

* * *


	20. Je Retournai

**A/N: I extended this chapter quite a bit. The warnings still apply – disturbing nightmare, a bit of dreamscape sensuality, and _au naturel _Erik.**

* * *

A week had passed. 

Patrick continued to visit her secretly, slipping away from parties and social events whenever he could to discuss what they had termed The Plan.

Annoyed as she was at his puppy-like devotion, her admirer had, to her great disquiet, begun to slowly and inexorably worm his way into her soul. She would be tediously learning the art of embroidery when suddenly his ferret-like face would suddenly appear before her subconscious, usually bearing either a pathetic pout or a childish grin. Although, to her growing alarm, it seemed to be becoming less and less ferret-like.

She had not, however, forgotten in the least bit her skeletal almost-paramour.

In fact, she thought of him more every day.

Her body and mind were developing an increasing, all-encompassing ache; the thinning mental threads between them had been stretched almost to the breaking point. She could nearly feel him fading away.

But a month she had promised herself she'd wait, so wait a month she would.

One thing continued to trouble her—she'd had no dreams since that one, tortuous inexplicality she'd had before leaving for Boston. Her sleep was blank, void, utterly without color or light.

In waking life, Agnes was being a complete bother, always fussing and begging her to stay. Constance completely avoided her, or, if she happened to cross her path, rewarded the girl with a sneer. If guillotines had been popular in the United States, Tora was sure that Constance would have had her head off by now.

And then something peculiar happened.

On the Sabbath night of the second week, she dreamt.

* * *

He tossed in his long box, satin no comfort to the writhing pain within his shadowy nightmares. 

They pointed, laughed, their teeth long yellow fangs, looking like human rats. He had no strength to rise from his bed of stabbing, harsh straw, or even to make a sound in protest. They thrust sickles, swords, red-hot pokers through the bars, poking at his bare flesh, scraping the skin from his bones.

He could not scream. His eyes protruded from their sockets, and he tried to protect them, knowing that the Shah wanted to put them out.

Mother appeared before him, suddenly, the flesh rotting from her face. She pointed with the rest, and cracked her decaying neck from side to side. "I always knew," she hissed, in a voice more like a demon than his mother—and then he knew that it was not his mother, but rather his own searing conscience, "that you would someday end up in a cage! Trying to seduce the chorus girls? They'll hang you for sure this time!"

He lunged at her then, trying to put his bony fingers around the rotting neck, blind with hate—but everything dissolved into oblivion.

All was quiet, tranquil, heavenly silence.

Why?

* * *

Tora blinked. She was dreaming. How odd. 

Out of the corner of her eye, she swore she saw a shape, familiar, long, but so, so white.

Her lips moved, but no sound came forth.

_Turn,_ she commanded her dream-body, and it began, sluggishly, to pivot.

_He _was there.

* * *

In one brilliant shock of electric realization, he knew why the dreamscape had changed. _She _was there. 

_She _had come.

"How?" he whispered, feeling his own skin. It was whole, altogether. She was turned sideways—she did not see, yet—did he have his mask?

He felt for it—it wasn't there, to his absolute horror.

He fumbled frantically, and all of a sudden it was, but...

She turned too quickly for him to do anything about the state of his clothes.

Lack thereof, rather.

How utterly embarrassing.

One lovely, dark, feminine eyebrow raised itself upon her forehead, and in spite of himself, he quivered.

"Oh, _merde_," she said. "My imagination must be running away with me again." Her eyes averted automatically, her graceful dancer's hand fluttering to her temple to shield her limpid orbs.

He looked around for something to cover himself up with. What sort of dream _was_ this?

Her eyes helplessly shot back, and he went crimson, hands fumbling to conceal Erik the Second.

He flinched to see her nose wrinkle slightly as she took in the full portent of his undernourished frame. "Do you really look like _that?_" she asked, sounding slightly disgusted.

Overcoming his hurt and embarrassment, Erik fixed his eyes upon her, sneering. "What did you expect?" he snapped. "Rippling muscles and golden skin? Perhaps you would prefer me with Apollo's face? Eh?" He ripped off his mask, and was both gratified and cut to the core to see her stumble backwards, her mouth twisting into a horrified grimace.

"HA!" he said triumphantly.

"It makes you who you are," she said impulsively, eyes darting to look anywhere but that horrid, sunken death's-head.

"Well, then," he said, "perhaps if it were less? Half my face whole, and half deformed? Half Apollo and half-monster? Perhaps you would like me to have a full head of hair as well...or a wig. Yes, that's it, isn't it? A half-mask and wig. _Parfait_," he said, gesturing elegantly with one hand—being quite careful to keep the left hand over Erik the Second. As best he could, at any rate.

"Stop being childish," she said.

"_But it's who I_ _am_," he taunted. "Aha, aha, aha! Tora can't stand the sight of her beloved Erik!"

She slapped him.

His left hand fled to his cheek, yellow eyes fixed upon her ruefully. "Insolent little tart," he snapped.

"Petulant child," she hissed. "You—" Her eyes drifted downward, suddenly.

Erik watched, bemused, as her face went white, then scarlet.

He glanced down to see what on earth she was looking at.

Oh, God.

"_Mon Dieu,_" she gasped. "Now I know I'm dreaming!"

Erik's cheeks flamed, and he leapt backward, fumbling. _Clothes, clothes, clothes. _Perhaps if he concentrated enough...

Ah. Thank heavens.

"What—was—_that_?" she whispered.

Erik sucked in his cheeks. "Erik the Second," he mumbled, without thinking. Immediately thereafter he felt the extraordinary urge to rip his tongue out.

"_What?_" Tora exclaimed, looking at him with her mouth open. Suddenly she began to laugh hysterically.

Erik gritted his teeth. "You're not real!" he said. "You're not real!"

"No, no," Tora giggled, holding her stomach, "It's quite obvious who's not real...the notion that _you_ would say such a ridiculous thing as..."

"Am I to find no solace anywhere?" he moaned, clutching his head and staring at her with clenched teeth. "Not even in dreams?"

"You should know...I'm coming back to you quite soon," she murmured as if she hadn't heard, though he noticed her eyes were fixed upon his lapels rather than his face. The remnants of her mirth made her lovely mouth twitch a bit.

"Tora still can't stand the sight of Erik," he said maliciously. "She's just like everybody else..."

"What are you talking about?" she said, grin vanishing. Her eyes flicked upwards to his face, though they darted quickly to the wall, and her mouth twisted almost imperceptibly. "Of course I can."

"Then _look_," he hissed. "Feast your eyes upon this pasty, sickly flesh! Even if Erik had a real nose, it wouldn't make him altogether handsomer!"

Tora shivered, eyes occasionally attempting to fix upon his visage, but refusing to stay. "Perhaps," she said. "But..."

Erik jammed his dream-mask back upon his face. Tora looked rather ashamed, but at least now she held his gaze.

He suddenly realized what she had said a few moments previously.

"You're coming back to France?" he demanded. "But I told you..."

"What?" she asked.

"In the letter," he said. "Not to."

"What letter?" she asked, her face going a shade paler. "You sent me a letter?"

Suddenly her face changed, relaxing. "Of course you didn't," she said. "You're only a dream."

"_I_, a dream?" he demanded angrily. "You are naught but a figm—"

His eyes happened to glance down, and he quite suddenly became painfully aware of the swooping curve of Tora's small but rather delectable breasts. That silenced him completely.

"Erik?" she asked softly.

His ravenous eyes found the tempting hollow, the soft side curves that peeped from the nightgown's low neck, one soft wavy-curl of her hair falling down her neck and disappearing into the sultry cleft.

"Christine...Christine is a porcelain, sculpted angel," he whispered. "But Tora is a seductive mistress, looking at me with those dark, inexpressible eyes. Erik could fall into those brown pools...or the space between her breasts...or both...and never care."

Tora shivered, feeling an electric quiver up her spine. She swallowed. "Erik...did you really send me a letter?"

"You haven't received the letter yet, of course," he said absently, "because Erik only sent it yesterday."

There was a pause.

"Erik," said Tora slowly, "why on earth do you keep referring to yourself by name?"

"Why, it's easier," said Erik. "Not to care."

"Detachment?" she asked suddenly.

"Quite plausibly," he muttered, eyes hungrily caressing the bend in her waist, the curve of her hip. His hands traced her form in the air of themselves.

His eyes traveled upward, stroking the swan-like neck.

"_Come here_," he whispered huskily. He thought he might go mad if he did not claim her lips or her body this instant, dream or no.

Tora shivered, and slid her foot forward.

She began to dissolve.

"No!" he begged, his hands grasping at her image. "Don't go..."

Tora's hands groped blindly, catching his for a moment. "Erik!" she gasped. "In a few months, I'll be..."

She disappeared.

* * *

Erik awoke, sweating. He blinked several times to dispel the salty byproduct, which had dripped into his eyes. To his disgusted consternation, his nightshirt had a large slick spot in the region he despised the most. 

"_Je deteste ma vie_," he snarled, crawling out of the coffin to clean himself up.

_Never even in dreams am I granted true pleasures_, he thought savagely.

He washed his face in the basin, and stared at the empty space above it on the wall where, in a normal man's house, a mirror might have hung.

Taking off his nightshirt, he looked at his body, trying to ignore the state of Erik the Second, who hadn't yet been completely calmed, and he felt his ribs with his hands. They stuck out like bony wings above his sunken stomach, and they reminded him unpleasantly of his nightmare.

His arms were wiry, but still unnaturally slender, and his legs were similar. He supposed they weren't completely revolting, but there was the matter of his upper torso, which...

Suddenly repulsed with himself, he ripped his hands away. He had never despised himself so much, so completely, for being so ugly.

He espied, suddenly, a pair of scissors upon the table a few feet away. He examined his wrists. The skin was thin...perhaps it wouldn't be difficult to...

His little angel's face blazed before him as he greedily picked up the blades.

"Oh, no," he whispered. "Triumph." It was only a week away.

Erik disgustedly threw the scissors down. _After all, she might love me. _

He thought of her expression when he sang, and he felt warmth spread through his veins. _No, she must. She must love me!_

It was not a speculation. It was an ultimatum, an imperative. If she didn't love him, he could not exist. And as for Tora...

It seemed he felt his insides twist into a knot. _I shall forget. I shall. I shall. It can't be! She's in Boston, and she won't come back to see her Erik!_

Nearly lipless mouth twisted, from...pain? Anger?

And what of that black icicle embedded in his heart, tearing away at all the goodness, causing him exquisite suffering and untold malice? He had forgotten when it had come, but he thought it might have been the day she left. Perhaps it was the day he spied Christine for what seemed to be the very first time—not as a mundane little ballet rat or chorus girl, but as a ripe young bird, plumage sparkling.

It had been there so long, growing ever slowly, that he half-thought it had been there all the time, ever since he'd traveled with the gypsies, entertained the sultana, learned the art of strangulation in India. Ever since he'd made a hole for himself in this wretched place, living like a mole, a rat.

Perhaps it had been there from birth.

* * *


	21. The Nature of Possessiveness

**A/N: If you haven't already, I highly recommend going back and re-reading the whole thing from Chapter 1, as some minor but important details have been altered, a few errors have been corrected, and quite a few chapters have gained some extra clarifications – especially Chapter 1, which has been majorly revised, and Chapter 20, which now has about thirty-five added sentences. If nothing else, do it to refresh your memory on bygone events. Excessive time-gaps between updates are never good for one's memory, as I know from long experience.**

**Some parts of this chapter beg some questions, which, I promise, will be answered in Chapter 22.**

**

* * *

**

He stared at the stone in his hand. It was smooth, polished, from the shallows around the wharf. Small enough not to cause any damage to glass if thrown properly...he hoped.

It clacked quite loudly against her window, making him wince.

* * *

A dog barked, somewhere. It was the barking, and not the stone, that woke her.

"_Merde,_" she mumbled, baring her teeth. She had gotten far too used to sleeping late.

In her half-stupor, she saw her masked man (the exact moment when she had begun to think of him as _hers_ wasn't quite certain, though, she reflected lazily, it had probably been in Paris), standing at the foot of the bed, and began to ask him what was the matter._"Erik, qu'est-ce que le..."_

A loud clack resounded on her window, much like the one she had vaguely heard in her sleep. She jumped, barely suppressing a startled instinctive shriek.

"Good God, Patrick," she groused, flinging back her covers and treading carefully across the creaking boards. The hanging neck of her nightgown fluttered a bit when she opened the window, for the breeze came in, assaulting her nostrils with the overpowering but not altogether unpleasant odors of sea-salt and fish.

He stood below, the little ferret, looking very lost and almost not like a ferret at all, but more like a timid mouse. His legs looked nice in those breeches, she reflected, and then nearly slapped herself.

"Are you ready?" she whispered vehemently.

He was a bit dazed by her tangled wavy-curls whipping about in the breeze, not to mention the bit of cleft shown by her nightgown, and didn't answer.

"Are you ready, Patrick?" she hissed, her eyes catching fire. A splinter lodged itself beneath her fingernail, and she let forth a stream of lovely French curse words, realizing she had been gripping the sill too hard.

He laughed, nervously. "Y...yes!" he whispered, attempting to sound carefree but sounding more like someone who had recently eaten too much chocolate.

"Good," she muttered, sucking her finger, which was quite bloody from the violent extraction of the tiny sliver of pinewood. She turned from the window and spat the blood out in the chamber-pot, where it settled viscously into a small puddle of pink-tinged saliva.

"I'll get my things," she whispered brusquely, poking her head out the window, hair blowing and getting in her mouth. She pulled her head back in again disgustedly, wiping frenziedly at the tangled hairs.

Tora threw off her nightgown – glancing suspiciously at the window and subsequently drawing the drapes from a discreet angle – and proceeded dressing in the least possible amount of womanly layers that she could manage without being completely immodest. She left her corset in the suitcase, but the petticoat, she supposed with a disgruntled sigh, had become an embarrassing necessity.

She struggled into one of the dresses that Aunt had insisted on buying for her with Constance's borrowed money – "practically pretty" was as good a description as any. It wasn't nearly as beautiful or extravagant as Erik's dresses, nor was it as homely as her old Opera clothes. She looked wonderfully middle-class in it.

Closing her neatly packed suitcase quietly, and pulling on her equally middle-class shoes, she tiptoed to Aunt's room and slid a letter under the door. She had already told Agnes that she was leaving in the near future; she had said goodbye, in a fashion. She had no stomach for Aunt's pleas, and she loathed having her be privy to the secret deception she and Patrick were planning beforehand, which was why she hadn't explained it all outright. On the other hand, she hated leaving her mother's sister with no remembrance or acknowledgment of their time together, as if like a puff of smoke. The letter would do. Although she was sure Aunt wouldn't see it quite that way.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, more like a breath than words, and kissed the door.

A hand descended on her shoulder. Tora gasped, and her back straightened like a rod.

Constance's fingers were like slender talons. The nails dug into her flesh.

"Leaving so soon, dear?" she intoned in her lazy, aristocratic way. "But we've only just begun to get to know each other."

_Get to know each other _metamorphosed from slow aristocratic drawl into viciously nasty triumph mixed with schoolyard taunt. She sounded, Tora thought, rather like a harpy.

The girl shivered. "Take your fingers off," she said. "I'll go when I like. Besides, shouldn't you be rejoicing, and not standing in my way?" A few epithets had threatened to follow, but Tora bit her tongue quite wisely.

Constance sneered. "You deign," she said, hissing like a snake, "to dictate to _me_ what I am to do! You humiliate me in front of my guests! You upset the balance of my standing in society! You – " (here she seemed at a red-faced loss as to what to say next.)

Tora slapped her hand away. "Don't touch me," she snapped in a whisper. "At least I don't play the rich and simpering harlot while my husband is away."

Constance's face was white for a moment. "Ah," she said, recovering. "But I _have _a husband. And what do you have for a lover at all, weakling? Perhaps it is the puling little Irishboy, whose face alternates between red and milk, and whose trousers," she laughed, throwing her head back, letting her red curls cascade mockingly, "commonly bear embarrassing proof of not only his doglike eagerness, but his _adolescence _as well!"

Tora took a step backward, smarting over both the implied liasion and the cruel innuendo directed at her boy – for he _was_ a boy, not a man, nineteen or no, and he _was _hers, after a fashion. They were...were...friends, at least. "You _would _think that," she began bitingly...

"Ah, yes," Constance sneered, regaining her sultrily snooty pose, inclining her neck at just the right ways so as to denote utter superiority. "You toy with him, dear. His parents will be most displeased." The drawl had come again, and Tora wanted to grip her throat and choke that voice until it smothered.

"Enough," she said, meeting the wretched woman's eyes with her Glare. The flaming eyes, the frighteningly curled, pinched, and white mouth, the altogether semblance of a wild prophet rebuking the wicked, never had failed to make her quail, and to Tora's grim delight, it didn't fail now.

"I'm going now," she said. "I hope that Aunt, at least, realizes who you are, and not who you were, and leaves this house."

Constance spluttered, attempting to regain her composure.

Tora pushed her to one side contemptuously, regarding the polished stairs, and decided, simply because she never had, to slide (suitcase and all) down the bannister.

* * *

"Do you know," whispered the Angel, from a place unknown (it seemed his voice could be everywhere and nowhere at once),"that your triumph is but _seven days from today?_"

Christine shivered, glorying in his lovely, dark, and proudly appreciative tone. "I must confess," she said in a confident way, "that I'm not quite sure whether to be excited to the point of sickness or to be terrified beyond reason."

The Angel was silent for a moment. "Your birthday," he said in a conversational tone, "is coming, is it not, my sweet?"

Christine shivered again, that he should call her _his _anything. It was blasphemously delicious to imagine h...

Oh, no. No. _Out, damned spot!_

He was an Angel, after all!

"You remember my birthday," she murmured, blushing extravagantly. She could not know it, but the sight made him rather weak.

She bent down to examine a shoe, exposing her cleavage, and the voice was silent. When it spoke again, it had that tone – that strange, almost awful tone – that she had only heard very recently, and rarely. It was a raw tone, an almost primally savage and desperate one, and it made her wonder whether or not her Angel really was...

"May the seventeenth," it gasped, "I shall give you a present on that day..."

Christine looked up, both delighted and alarmed. "Why, Angel!" she said, with a bright smile, but then looked concerned. "Whatever is the matter? You sound so strange sometimes...why, if Angels could be ill, I should think that you..."

"Never mind it, Christine!" boomed the voice, sounding...angry? Disquieted? It sounded a bit rattled, at any rate.

Christine was beginning to have serious and lasting doubts of her Angel's...er...heavenliness. _Divinity_, she supposed, was the correct word, blushing a bit.

But perhaps...oh, perhaps...he was becoming more human every day, and he really _would _forsake heaven for her! That would be...sacreligiously wonderful. Would God strike her dead for causing such a thing to happen? Would He strike them both?

The voice cleared its throat, sounding as though it was trying to regain some composure. "On that night," it rumbled, "you must give your _soul!_ You must sing, sing as you never have before, never even in this room where we have practiced, and you must astound them. You shall make them see God!"

Christine's foot slipped, and she fell backwards. "Angel!" she whispered. "You _do _mean non-literally..."

"Of course," said the voice, sounding almost disgusted.

Christine winced. "I was only making sure," she said. "With you, I can never tell whether you're serious or..."

"Enough, Christine," said the voice brusquely. "You shall now sing Mozart's _Alleluia, _much as I hate the tune."

Christine opened her mouth, but the full impact of what her Angel, her _Angel_, had just said hit her like a blow to the head.

Her eyes went wide, her mouth slack, her face white.

Erik covered his mouth too late. His eyes nearly rolled back into his head. His skin felt clammy, claustrophobic, as though he were being crushed by stones.

_Quick, quick, you fool, think, THINK!_

"It does not do Our Lord justice," he managed to say pompously. "Mozart never was, in my opinion, enough of a genius to compose for God."

Christine's eyelids fluttered, and her taut muscles relaxed. Her eyes darted, though, and her breath, he could see, was still a bit quick.

"Oh," she said. "You really think so?"

Erik suppressed a massive sigh of sweet relief – he had not lost her yet. Not yet had he made the fatal error. The unravelling thread had not yet come full circle.

"Angel!" she said loudly, when he had been silent for far too long. Her tone was surprisingly unsubserviant.

He blinked his eyes. "Yes, sweet?" he breathed.

"I thought I was to sing," she said.

Erik closed his eyes. "Yes, yes, go on...child." He felt his patience and ironclad resolve wearing dangerously thin. He had just allowed his eyes to feast upon her half-exposed breasts, had he not? The lovely, milk-white things...

_O, merde alors._

_

* * *

_

They walked, hand in hand, though she didn't know why. It had just happened, really. They held hands more like brother and sister than like lovers, however, the vague realization of which made her both smile and falter.

"It says here," said Patrick, stopping on the street to show her his paper, "that the steamship _Bonnie_ will take us to France in fifteen days or less."

Tora's eyes opened wide. "Really?" It had taken her and Aunt almost three weeks to cross the Atlantic, but then the boat had been cheap, and slow, and had stopped often to gather fish.

Tora saw an urchin inching towards Patrick's abandoned suitcase. She quickly stepped in front of it.

The boy, who could not have been more than six, looked at her solemnly.

She was not sure if she wanted to weep or laugh. "What is your name?" she whispered.

He grinned, showing three lost teeth. "Ivan," he said, with a bit of a lisp. She delighted in the way his little eyes crinkled up when he smiled, and the red gaps where his baby teeth had gone missing.

"Where is your _maman, cheri_?" she asked, bending lower so she could be almost level with his chubby face.

He shrugged, and pointed upward.

Tora stumbled back.

Patrick tugged her arm. "Come on!" he whispered urgently. "It leaves in an hour and a quarter! And we might have to get inspected!"

Tora resisted the pull, reaching her hand out for the boy, but the crowd itself dragged her away. The urchin's solemn, crystal-blue eyes kept staring until they too were lost in the bland color of the moving masses.


	22. An Approaching Time

**A/N: Just so you're all aware, I have the writing bug to an extreme. I'm not hugely happy with the bulk of this chapter, but I didn't want to keep you waiting any longer. Mil's lovely review for last chapter finally made me cave in. **

**Now, as to all the rampant lurkers, I realize that when a fic is on suspension as long as this one has been, and then is suddenly updated out of the blue, sometimes you figure you'll take your time reviewing because after all, the next update won't come for months anyway...**

**But ever since I finally solved a problem that had to be addressed in Chapter 21 and was agonizing me all the way back from when I posted Chapter 13, you'll be getting a lot more OW more often. Mostly I was just putting it off for as long as possible because I needed a certain bit of historical clarification, and I could not find it ANYWHERE until just last month. And I'm quite glad I held out and didn't just guess at it, because I was off. A lot.**

**So there you have it. Read away, my sweetings, and remember, the more you review, the quicker I shall update.**

**

* * *

**

"Your parents," said Tora, leaning upon the railing, loving the salt air blowing against her face, the bitter but pleasing smell of the sea. "You told them your story?"

Patrick fiddled with his jacket, looking a bit seasick. "Yes," he said, eyes rolling, reciting boredly. "Going to France to visit a rich friend. Will be introduced to very high society, may meet rich young ladies, could be included in..." Here he leant over the rail and gave a retch.

Tora wasn't sure whether to giggle or grimace.

She patted his back awkwardly, and felt his shoulder blades brush against her fingers.

He remained over the side for a moment, collecting himself. Not to mention discreetly wiping his mouth upon his sleeve.

"Did they object?" Tora asked quickly, pretending she hadn't seen.

Patrick slowly pushed himself up, chest heaving a bit. "A...little..." he gasped, breathing in great gulps of air, which only seemed to make him greener. "Oh, _merde_..." He leant over the side again.

This time Tora did giggle, in spite of herself. "I'm rubbing off on you, it seems," she said lightly, grinning. "Soon you'll speak like a native Frenchman without even knowing it."

Patrick's only response was a slight, whimpering groan.

"Why _did _they consent, in the end?" Tora asked curiously, pulling him up by his shoulder and dabbing indiscriminately at his mouth with a convenient handkerchief. She heartily attempted to ignore the smell, but grimaced anyway.

Patrick shivered. "I convinced them...that I...am of age...to make...my own..." His stomach twitched, and he clutched it.

Tora let go of his shoulder at once, and back he went over the railing again.

A boatswain, walking by and spying Patrick's miserable state, grinned cheekily at Tora and made a suggestive gesture.

Tora gave him the French equivalent of boil-your-head (to put it mildly) and turned back to Patrick, patting his back again.

"Here," she said, fumbling to get him up again, "we should go to the cabin, perhaps." A small flush arose on her cheeks for a moment, thinking of the impropriety of the two of them sharing a cabin—he had only been able to afford one, and that had been a stretch in itself. Everyone would have thought them illicit lovers, but they were masquerading as brother and sister for the moment.

"No," he rasped, "I'll be all right, I...I..." He clutched his stomach, but only evicted a small belch.

Tora's nose wrinkled up. "Good God..." She turned her head away. "You'll make _me _sick!"

Patrick turned red, as usual. "Sorry," he muttered, leaning against the rail.

Tora turned back. "Look at the horizon, never the boat," she said. "Aunt told me that's the way to ward off seasickness. If you do that, everything does not appear to rise and fall so much."

Patrick's eyes drifted to the horizon, and after a few moments he breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank God," he muttered. "It works a little."

She followed his gaze, looking into the sun as it set. "Your parents are quite consensual human beings, really."

Patrick shrugged. "Thankfully I'm not the baby of the family, or the eldest, or otherwise they'd never have let me go."

Tora glanced at him strangely. "I wouldn't know, I suppose."

"It's not really difficult," he said. "My younger brother Aiden, sixteen, is pampered like a child because he's the youngest, and they're rather protective of his prospects. On the other hand, Christian is the oldest, and therefore the family heir. They expect him to uphold the family honor and do their bidding while he remains unmarried."

He smiled lopsidedly. "They're not overly worried about _me_. The children are seven all told. One middle child who's already come of age won't be as missed at all."

"How strange," mused Tora. "Sometimes I wish my mother had had twins. One boy and one girl. Don't you think it would be fun to have a twin of the other sex?"

Patrick looked at her oddly, and shrugged. "Perhaps. But I heard one of Da's doctor friends telling him once over whiskey that boy-and-girl twins are no more similar than regular siblings."

"I never heard _that_," said Tora. "It doesn't make much sense."

"Perhaps not," said Patrick. "I haven't any idea of what really happens."

There was an awkward silence. Patrick wiped his mouth on his sleeve again out of sheer nervousness, then looked at it and grimaced. "Oh."

Tora glanced at him, then looked back at the horizon, which was becoming more like a pink-and-orange painting every passing second. "We should try to get that stain out. It will ruin your jacket."

He put his arm at his side, trying to hide the large soiled spot on his sleeve.

A lady walking past looked at him with distaste. He turned red with embarrassment.

"Go to the washroom," suggested Tora. "Try to scrub it out."

He looked at her. "I'd rather not leave you alone, you know. Things happen on ships..."

"Oh, for heaven's sakes, Patrick," she said impatiently. "I'll be perfectly fine."

"Are you sure?" he asked.

Tora wordlessly reached into one of her makeshift pockets and pulled out a small knife which she had "borrowed" from Constance's kitchen. "Quite sure, brother dearest."

He flushed. "Very well. I shall go...and try to...get this...out..." He had already begun rubbing at it while walking. Several people looked at him strangely, and a few gave him a wide berth because of the lingering smell of his regurgitation still clinging to his breath and clothes.

Tora tried not to giggle, looking back at the sea, and keeping the knife firmly clutched in its little sheath (two bits of leather which she had sewn together haphazardly).

Her mind began to wander to the Opera, and a thrill of excitement shot through her veins.

_I wonder if he'll..._

She blushed. Whenever she thought, lately, of seeing Erik again, she felt as though she were heady and drunk. _So soon...only thirteen days...oh, I'm coming, Erik, I'm coming._

_

* * *

_

"Five days," said the Angel. "In five days you will release your gift and astound the masses with your beauty."

Christine blushed dreadfully. "You flatter me far too much," she said sheepishly. "What right have I to your praise?"

"Every right!" boomed the voice, a little less dignified than usual. There was that raw tone again, and it was beginning to frighten her a little.

"Sing from _Aida _again, once more," he demanded. "And then you will sing the part of Marguerite from _Faust_, which you _will_ play, Carlotta or no Carlotta."

"How will you ever manage it?" asked Christine. "I do hope nothing frightful is to happen to her...will it, Angel?" she asked anxiously. "Of course the woman is perfectly odious, but I would never wish any harm to her, never."

"Worry not, Christine," the voice said lazily. "Trust your Angel to do Heaven's will."

"I...I..." she stammered.

"_Sing_," the voice demanded darkly. "Or I will leave this very instant."

"Very well," she said in a small voice, and began to emit the notes from her lovely throat.

The shadow smiled, attempting to feel light and airy as he used to when watching her. His training had truly been worth the effort, after all.

But all he could feel in his soul now was darkness, and the bitterness of lust.

* * *

_Two days before..._

"Agnes!" screeched Constance. "Agnes, wake up this instant!"

She tumbled out of bed, hair unruly and nightgown rumpled from tossing and turning. "What is it?" she asked frantically, "What? Is it Tora?"

"Tora!" Constance snapped. "Don't speak to me of Tora! That wretch! That little guttersnipe!"

Agnes looked up. "Don't you speak of her that way, dear," she said brusquely, eyes flashing a bit and reminding Constance uncomfortably of Tora's Glare. "It's not very polite to speak of a guest so, particularly one of your long-lost relations."

Constance waved a hand, eyes raised to heaven. "I'm glad she's gone! I'm glad of it! Were it not for sheer hospitality's sake I would have run her out weeks ago! Always shooting me evil looks and playing the coquette with the little Irish boy, meeting him in the garden and whispering with him, like as not fornicating with him when nobody was looking..."

"Constance!" snapped Agnes.

The wife of Colonel Parker looked at her angrily. "She's gone," said she, "Gone, and I'm glad of it."

It had finally set in. Agnes' face went white. "Gone?" she breathed. "_Gone?_"

"I wouldn't be surprised if she and the Irish boy had run away together," sneered Constance. "Romantic, no?"

Agnes espied the letter on the floor and snatched it up. "Perhaps she will explain in here."

Constance waved her hands again. "I wash my hands of it. You should have seen her out there when I confronted her! Utter rudeness, and complete disregard for my generous indulgences of her." She looked at Aunt, expecting a retort, but Agnes was reading the letter and paid no attention to her.

Without another word, Constance swept out of the room and banged the door behind her, muttering to herself. "Sliding down the bannister, indeed," she groused. "What absolute impertinence."


	23. Unraveling Threads

**A/N: So yesterday, out of boredom, I harnessed my creativity and decided to pre-write Chapter 23 a bit. Wouldn't you know, I ended up writing the whole chapter. Though it's one of my shorter ones, I admit.**

**The plot's being volatile at this point, so this tale could be finished in as little as a month and a half or as long as four to six months. It all depends upon where the writing takes me…but I assure you, long or short, updates will come regularly from now on. At the very least, I can promise you that there will be no more gaps spanning any more than a month at a time. Hopefully none will even take that long.**

**

* * *

**

Three days passed.

Tora could have sworn, the fifth evening after they had sailed, that Patrick had been peeking when she'd gotten dressed behind the makeshift screen, and heartily hoped he had not. She personally vowed to shave him bald as an egg (and perhaps in other places) if ever she found out that he had been spying on her whilst she was _au naturel._

Since the change in circumstance (and especially proximity), Tora had not flirted for some time, and to her great satisfaction, he seemed to be becoming less doggishly devoted for it. They were more like brother and sister than ever before—they even quarreled like cats when the occasion called for it. Tora reflected, grinning, that they had argued at least once a day since they had taken sail, and her impulsive, childish attractions that had been coming and going at a maddening rate in the past month (and which she had finally acknowledged to _be _attractions) were gradually fading away entirely.

Which was good. It was. After all, it surely wouldn't do for them to be…

Tora blushed, and grimaced. Oh, good gracious, _no_. It was rather remarkable how much their sibling-like behavior had begun to work its way into their brains, causing them to feel a sort of platonic fondness for each other (that was Tora's attitude, at any rate, and she wasn't quite sure about Patrick's) rather than any sort of romantic inclinations one might feel for a non-family member of the opposite gender.

As if deliberately foiling her attempts to curb the ridiculous feelings that continually rose and fell in her bosom and brain, Patrick, not bothering to get out of bed, peeled his shirt off and tossed it on the floor with a deft swoop.

Tora, as was so often the case when dealing with Patrick, was not sure whether to gape, laugh, or simply give him a good knock on the head with the wash basin.

He saved her the trouble and promptly went to sleep.

_I look like one of his beets,_ Tora thought dizzily, _I mean, his beet-face. His beet-chest! No, that's not right…_

Said chest was quite as milky as the rest of him (more than other parts now that they'd spent time out on the decks in the glaring sun and his face was quite burned), and rather well-formed, as chests went…

_STOP!_

The chest was drawing her into its clutches, like some sort of evil moon-lit…_thing_.

With a bit of hair.

And nipp—

"PFEH!" yelled Tora, grabbing the wash basin. She intended to use it on her own head, but Patrick saved her the trouble by rudely awakening at her outburst.

With an abrupt _clang_ that seemed to come out of nowhere Patrick went to sleep as unexpectedly as he had woken, with a nasty headache brewing for the morning.

Not to mention a very large and very unsightly round, purpling bump upon his often unfortunate, sometimes clever, but rather foolishly impulsive cranium.

* * *

Little Meg Giry, homely and slight, was walking through the corridors when she espied a swirl of blackness gathering into shadow. 

She stopped, eyes darting, breath quickening in delighted terror. Could it be…could it be…her mother had said that…

"Meg, darling," said La Sorelli, sweeping past in a swirl of color, "come help me with my bodice, would you? There's a good girl…"

"But…Sorelli…the…the…" Meg gasped, not able to get the words out.

The Opera's star dancer glared upon her slim, swarthy little inferior. "What is it, Giry?" she barked. "What on earth are you on about now?"

Meg quailed. "N…nothing…_madame_," she added respectfully, though in truth Sorelli was _mademoiselle_ and not likely to become the _dame_ of anyone unless it were the Comte de Chagny…

She felt her arm being pulled like a puppet on a string, but didn't cry out. Sorelli had been known to box the ears of any lowly ballet rat she pleased, and Meg did not intend to be the next victim of her brief attacks.

There was silence, for a moment, and Christine wandered down the now-empty corridor, humming to herself. It was a depressing tune, one that she had made up herself, a very nearly monotonous and bored-to-tears tune that she used when she was thinking.

She heard it being hummed back to her.

It was wonderfully altered, so that it varied, rose, fell, sounding more like heartbreak than depressiveness or boredom, and Christine felt her breath catch from both apprehension and ecstasy.

She hummed with the invisible tune-maker, keeping up with him, adding a bit of harmony (which backfired once or twice when she hummed the wrong note, but turned out all right). The male humming rose, crescendoed, smashed the rooftops with its sound!

Christine nearly collapsed with her breathless delight at it all. "Angel," she said with a grin, "you've given yourself away!"

There was silence for a moment.

The ceiling talked, seemingly. "Indeed," it whispered, "and would you…like to see more of me?"

Christine trembled. "Oh, yes!" she said impulsively, without thinking. Recovering herself, she blushed and stammered, "Why…why…I…"

The voice was silent. It seemed that her trembling had infected the air, so that the very air itself seemed to quiver and shake with longing, suppression.

"You shall," said the voice huskily. "I promise that you shall! One day…"

"Oh, no," Christine said quickly, tears springing to her eyes at her gaffe, "don't…don't forsake Heaven for me, Angel. If you _must_ remain hidden to be God's messenger, then I…"

"Practice," said the voice, changing the topic abruptly. "You need almost none, now. But nevertheless. Tonight, in your dressing-room, as usual. _Au revoir_, _ma cher._"

"A…Angel?" Christine asked incredulously.

The walls echoed, but none answered, not even when she called softly to him for five long minutes.

"Still conversing with your pretend Angel?" Suzette said with a patronizing sort of pitying friendliness, walking past. Christine jumped, for she hadn't heard her coming.

"You must give up such childish things, Christine, if you are to be nineteen next month," Suzette said. "I'm twenty myself, and I gave all that up a long time ago!"

Christine kept herself from pouting. "He _is_ real," she muttered for what seemed the seventh time to all her naysayers who had stumbled upon her whilst in the throes of private adulation this month, "and he…"

"Christine!" laughed Suzette. "Christine, Christine! You're such a child, yet! Do you really think…"

"_YES_," Christine was about to say, but abruptly changed her mind.

"Why, no," she said. "Not really. I mean to say, it was all a game I was playing with myself…"

"Games!" Suzette (who was usually quite nice, but had an unfortunate tendency to look down upon certain members of the ballet and chorus corps) grinned. "Games are for the ten-year-old ballet rats!"

Christine glowered. "It's all well and good to say that you're a woman…you…_you're_ sleeping with Carolus Fonta!" she blurted out. "And everyone knows it, what's more!"

Suzette went scarlet. "I most certainly am not!" she managed, her face as red as a tomato. "To think…he…and I…"

Christine tossed her head. "Fine. You're not sharing Fonta's bed, and _I'm_ not being visited by an Angel."

Suzette opened her mouth, but unfortunately, words had somehow failed her.

It was untrue, in all actual fact, that Suzette was having some sort of explicit _liasion_ with the leading tenor of the Opera, but it _was_ true that she had come quite dangerously close to being (quite willingly) stripped of her virtue a time or two. Fate had intervened up to this point. But how to tell the little minx about _that?_

Christine, meanwhile, waited, waited for a response. When none came, she sighed dejectedly, for she had begun to repent of her ill-begotten impulsive words, and began to walk away--and as she left the older girl behind, she could have sworn she heard a chuckle, somewhere above her, and she was not at all sure she liked the sound.


	24. Curiosity Killed The Cat

**A/N: Well, this is about to celebrate its silver chapter (and already passed its year-and-a-half anniversary), and I have a fairly nebulous idea now of where the story's going to go in this, the third and final act. **

**But if it makes any sense, I'm along for the ride almost as much as you are. Writing is an amazingly evolutionary and volatile process, and absolutes are almost nonexistent. Ergo, if you asked me the finer details of the upcoming plot, I couldn't tell you one way or the other without either eventually reneging upon whatever it was I said, or feeling limited by what I said because if I _did_ decide not to go through with it, I'd feel like a big fat liar.**

**Now, don't worry, dears. Just because I termed this the final act doesn't mean the story is three to five chapters away from its end. If I were to venture a guess (and it _is_ a guess, mind you) I'd say between ten and twenty. If not more.**

**And, as always, thank you for your lovely reviews.**

**Note: Simply for stylistic reasons, I don't always write the word Paris in italics. But when I do, you should think of it as the French "Par-_ee_" rather than the Anglicized "_Pare_-iss."**

**

* * *

**

The days were slow for Tora. It seemed an eternity ago that they had set sail from Boston, rather than a mere week. And to think, there was a week and a day more until they finally docked in France! And then, they would have to take the train to Paris...and then...

The word _Paris_ began singing in Tora's veins like a sweet throb. Oh, she missed her city.

_My beautiful, poetic, musical city. Have you missed me too?_

_Paris, Paris, Paris._

"T..Tora?" muttered Patrick, leaning gingerly on the rail (being quite careful to keep his eyes fixed upon the horizon). His bump had gone down quite a bit, but there was still a bit of a purple mark upon his head, mixed with an increasingly disgusting shade of yellow.

"Patrick," she responded coolly. She did not look at him. She kept thinking of _Paris. _When she thought of Paris, she was able to focus all her romantic inclinations upon the city itself...and upon Erik.

_Erik._

_Erik._

She felt a flicker. A tingle in her mind. That razor-sharp feeling had been dull for some time, but now it was beginning to waken, open.

A long white finger had brushed against her brain.

Her mind gasped at its coldness, its freezing chill.

Her shoulder was being shaken.

"Tora? Tora!"

Eyes opened.

"No," she gasped. "No, I want more."

Patrick's fingers uncurled themselves from her shoulder, very slowly and deliberately.

"Are you getting seasick, too?" he asked cautiously. "Perhaps sunstroke..."

"Oh, don't be ridiculous, Patrick," she snapped. "I..."

"Never mind it, then," he muttered. "You seemed to be acting so strangely..."

She waved a hand dismissively. "Thinking of the future, brother dearest," she said softly.

There was silence, and she saw, out of the corner of her eye, that he had winced again at her choice of nomenclature.

"When is your birthday?" he asked abruptly.

"My birthday?" she asked, bewildered, responding out of sheer instinct, "I don't have one."

Patrick smiled uncertainly. "Everyone has one, sill...eh...Tora...do you simply not know?"

She blushed. "That's what I _meant_. The only way I know I've aged a year is when it passes by. It's...it's rather approximate."

Suddenly she remembered Aunt telling her offhand.

"Oh," she muttered sheepishly. "I do know."

Thinking of Paris so vividly and allowing herself to be encompassed by memory had temporarily caused her to mentally regress a bit into her pre-Aunt Agnes days.

"When is it, then?" he pressed.

She rolled her eyes. "Why should I tell _you_, boy?" There she was, calling him _boy_ again. It was meant to be a signal for him to cease speaking, but it rarely worked.

"Be...cause," he said very cautiously (ever since the lump on his forehead, he'd been rather more cautious than usual). "Then I could know...when to...to get you.. a... a present."

Tora looked at him, attempting not to shriek with laughter. "A present?" she said, her voice trembling with the suppression of mirth. She prayed he would not mistake it for overly emotional gratitude.

He turned red.

_Beet-face!_ Tora thought instantly, and clapped her hand over her mouth, shoulders quivering. She snorted a bit, but instantly composed her face.

"Why _did _you hit me, at any rate?" he said with gritted teeth, attempting to force the blush back down by sheer mind-force. "And don't tell me the wash basin fell on my head. I know you're lying about it."

"_Oh?_" she queried dangerously. Patrick instinctively took a step back.

"Don't...don't do it again. Whatever it was I did..."

"Oh, go boil your head, boy," she said with a sigh. "I'm sorry. I did hit you. It was something of an accident."

"S..._something_?" he asked suspiciously, though it was laced with caution.

"Don't trouble yourself about it," she said. "I won't do it again. There. Are you _quite_ happy?"

"Not exactly," he mumbled sullenly, scuffing his shoe on the side-board.

"Content yourself," she said, and looked back at the sea, aching to be...

_He was busying himself with his best clothes, attempting to..._

She snapped to attention, shaking her head. What was that?

_The buttons shone, the hat was perfection, the mask a rich velvet lining._

_And his thoughts were blaring one word only, one. His thoughts practically screamed it as his fingers fumbled nervously with the ties of his cape, a groan emitted from behind the expressionless black velvet..._

Tora's fingers gripped the rail so that they were nearly bloodless. _No. Oh, no. No, no._

_Then his thoughts took flight, babbling I can't let her see me, I can't do it, I cannot go through with it, I won't, I won't._

_But his feet took him through the passages, to his hiding-place in Box Five in the hollow pillar. He would watch, at the very least. Watch and listen._

_He knew that this was utter madness. _

_But she must love him. She must._

_Perhaps he would go through with it after all._

Tora swayed, collapsing into Patrick's stunned arms in a horrified faint.

* * *

He had been denied. 

He had been mocked.

He had been used for entertainment and the visual stimulation of those seeking a horrific thrill.

He had himself exploited the people as just that, in what seemed a century ago.

He wanted a wife.

Someone who could understand him, love him, lay his disfigured head upon her soft, pillowy breast and let him sleep a peaceful, dreamless sleep.

Christine was not an option, an impulse, an evanescent wisp of insignificant longing.

She was an imperative.


	25. Passionate Interludes

**A/N: Oh, I am idea-filled. I am _brimming_ with them. I'm nearly going mad with the urge to write them all down!**

**There is a certain conundrum in particular coming up within the next few chapters that I have unraveled to my utmost satisfaction. **

**On a different note, one particular challenge I encountered in this chapter that caused its posting to be delayed was the fact that we're now smack-dab in the beginning of the Leroux novel, and of course I didn't want to just blandly re-state or plagiaristically copy the whole affair as told by the author. Hopefully I succeeded fairly well in depicting some of the same events from slightly different perspectives. Admittedly, some things are very similar, and a few character lines are either the same or nearly so, but I tried as best I could to style them differently and add a bit more flourish and detail.**

**

* * *

**

She sang to bring the rooftops down.

The training, he was gratified to see but was not surprised to know, had not been in vain.

Oh, she was good, but he began to perfectionistically berate himself, for in his fevered mind, she could have been much, much better.

There was no doubt in his thoughts now that he simply must go through with this masterful plan to carry her off, to sweep her from her feet and challenge everything she had ever known, and perhaps, in the process, achieve a woman's love—an idea so foreign and elusive that he had often wondered if it was in fact a reality for normal, ordinary men with wives...did their wives love them? Oh, he knew they must, and Christine would love him too, once he had taught her not to fear him, once he had broken away her barriers of human prejudice.

He _must_ do it. Only this way would he be able to cause this sorrowful seed of genius that he had cultivated, brought to a timid bud, and then finally, a cautiously opening flower, to burst fully into splenderous bloom.

It must be one-on-one. No more ethereal voices behind the dressing-room mirror. The deception would be shattered...broken. Like glass. The mirror itself was a wonderful metaphor.

He opened the trap-door beneath his hollow hiding-place in the pillar and swept downward, grinning and trembling all at the same time, so nervous his hands shook uncontrollably, and so exultant that his expression was rather terrible to behold.

* * *

Christine fainted dead away with the overwhelming shock of her altogether exhausting new debut, straight into the arms of Rosalinde and Cosette, two of the singers who were in the nearest vicinity. 

Cosette struggled to hold her upright. "Help me, Lise!" she demanded in a loud whisper, which was rather unnecessary as the entire house was on their feet in thunderous cheering and applause.

Lise couldn't hear a word (not only because Cosette was whispering, but because she suspected the audience had caused her to go temporarily deaf), but she picked up the meaning well enough. The three of them, joined by the others (including a laughing Carolus Fonta, who found the whole thing tragically amusing), dragged the near-senseless Christine from the stage amidst the Biblically-proportioned din and deposited her in her dressing-room.

"Smelling salts!" demanded Lise, snapping her fingers at the nearest girl. "Over there, on the table!"

The girl grabbed them immediately and shrieked when she was jostled by the gathering crowd of ardent admirers coming to see how their new idol was faring.

"Clear out!" yelled Lise. "Clear out!" It did no good. They only laughed, and wanted to know what was the matter with young Daaé, who was still lying prostrate on the couch.

"Oh, thank God," said Cosette, fanning the unconscious girl and trying not to laugh and cry at the same time—Daaé had astounded them all. "Here comes the doctor."

"Coming through, let me through, _please_," snapped the doctor, adjusting his spectacles and pushing through the annoyingly eager crowd, who would not cease their clamoring for Daaé.

Lise handed him the smelling-salts wordlessly, but was suddenly joined by a fair-haired young man whom everybody recognized as the Comte de Chagny's younger brother.

"How does she fare?" he asked anxiously, his bluebird's-egg eyes rapt with concern.

"Fine, fine," the doctor said impatiently, holding up her hand and checking her pulse. "She's just had a faint, that's all..."

Christine woke up with a start when the smelling-salts assaulted her olfactory senses. "Oh!" she gasped. "Oh...oh..."

"Don't you think," said the Vicomte calmly, though his hands were shaking, "that these people should vacate the room, Doctor?"

"Yes, yes," the doctor said, scowling and standing up.

"Everyone out!" he said forcefully. "Come now, give the poor girl room to breathe..."

Murmuring in discontent, the group of admirers slowly trickled out of the dressing-room.

A few noticed the Comte de Chagny chuckling and muttering to himself as he went with them, something about a "rogue", but they paid him little mind, preferring instead to discuss the extraordinary events of the evening among themselves. What, they wondered, had happened to make Carlotta ill? And why had this glorious young songbird been concealed from them so splendidly until this very night?

Going to La Sorelli's dressing-room, the Comte found himself surrounded by the ballet corps, whom Sorelli had in tow.

"Ah!" he said. "There are you are. I was just going to you...oh, Sorelli, you cannot imagine what has happened this evening!"

"We already know," said little Meg. "The poor man!"

Philippe gave a start. "What man?" he queried. "I was speaking of a woman...or very nearly so! Christine Daaé...her great triumph! It was astonishing, I daresay!"

The ballet girls giggled. "Christine?" Meg laughed, . "Ha! Ha! She...she sings like..."

"Like a carrion crow!" supplied one of the girls.

"A crock!" laughed another.

"She sings as though she had_ no_ _soul_," one of the others said in a mock whisper. "Oooooo..."

Philippe was becoming quite out of sorts. "I tell you, she..."

"What's all this?" barked the acting-manager, passing by and stopping to stare at the commotion.

"We were just going to inquire after..." began Meg.

"Joseph Buquet!" blurted Sophie, her voice both delighted and horrified. Before anyone could ask or explain, she shrieked, "Jammes' _maman _told us that he was hung! Hung by the neck in the third cellar!"

"The Ghost did it!" yelled the girls. "The Ghost! The Ghost!"

"Quiet," snapped the acting-manager. "Quiet! So you've heard already, have you? Well, don't say another word about it. You know full well that M. Debienne and M. Poligny are retiring tonight...it would only upset them to hear that Buquet is dead...and that nonsense about the Ghost on top of it! Don't say any more about it, do you hear?"

The girls murmured in bored consent, and continued on to the foyer, chattering like birds.

* * *

_Twenty minutes previously..._

Erik's hands were shaking, but not from nervousness. He wiped them to get rid of the saliva that had dripped upon them from the slack, freshly dead mouth when he had unloosed the rope that held the unfortunate victim of the torture-chamber.

He gritted his teeth, eyes flaming with rage.

The stupid, _stupid_ pig! Oh, he had been lenient when he'd been caught on the stairs that one fateful evening, and then when the man had spread the truthful rumors about the Opera Ghost's deathly appearance, but this was _really_ the last straw!

Of course, the man was dead of his own accord--had been for at least an hour--so there really wasn't anything that Erik could do about it now, was there?

Well, they would find him hanging behind the set piece of the _Roi de Lahore_ in the third cellar--a perfect setting for a suicide, and woe to any of them that dared to come and look for the Opera Ghost!

Now he had a perfectly wonderful idea...gone now was the foolish impulse to reveal himself to Christine so soon. Of a surety, it could wait but a little while more.

In the meantime, the managers had always been _most_ accomodating of his "little fads". He might as well see them off in subtle O.G. style.

But before that...he must dispose of _this. _And then...he would attend to the matter of his beloved.

He dragged the stinking dead body behind him by its shirt collar, grimacing, attempting to whistle the trio of Christine's triumph, but naught came out but a strangled sound, quiet and forced.

Shutting his eyes while he continued laboriously, he imagined what he would do when he got to the third cellar...hang the body, dust his hands off in satisfaction, and walk briskly to where his beautiful _ingenue_ almost certainly waited patiently for his return. Surely he would be able to put this permanently out of his mind...

* * *

_Twenty minutes after _

Christine sat in her dressing-room, quite alone now, breathing heavily.

To think...Raoul...he really did..._remember_ her!

"_Mademoiselle,_" he had said, and how romantically he had bent down upon one knee...and kissed her hand, like a knight out of a fairy tale! "_I am the little boy who went into the sea to rescue your scarf._"

And she had laughed at him, laughed cruelly, afraid that other eyes were watching, that other ears might take offense were she to respond in kind. Even as the people had been crowding around her, she had felt _His_ presence somewhere near, like an omniscient and slightly stern miasma.

She put a hand to her stomach, wanting to retch. Oh, it had been a terrible, wonderful evening!

The air seemed to thicken, swirl, and her eyes glazed just enough so that she felt slightly trancelike.

"_Christine._"

Immediately her eyes lost their glazed look and lit up beautifully, but it was mixed with fear, and longing. "Ah, you!" she said heavily. "I am afraid I...I am not...myself...tonight..."

"Do you not feel elated, my sweet?" asked the voice, bearing a mixture of pride and a dark undertone of something she couldn't quite identify. "We have triumphed, you and I. But..."

"Oh, Angel," she said, nearly in tears. "Don't you understand what it did to me, singing like that in front of all those people! It nearly killed me! I could have withered away from the fear of my own voice..."

"But you recovered," the voice said coolly, and she was almost sure that there was something ominous in its tone, "when the Vicomte de Chagny introduced himself, did you not?"

Christine went pale. "I...I..."

"Why, Christine," the voice said silkily, "did you pretend not to recognize him? After the glowing reports you gave me, no less!"

Christine shivered, the blood leaving her lips. "I..."

"Unless," hissed the voice, softer and softer, "he is more to you than simply an _old friend._ Perhaps," the voice mused, so malevolently that Christine was entirely taken aback, "you would like to have him for your lover!"

Christine's mouth gaped open. "Angel!" she gasped. "How could you think..."

"If you felt nothing for him," the voice said, "you would not pretend you did not know him! Such actions may only come from one source: fear or shyness! Why would you be shy with him, unless you were afraid of making your feelings known? Why would you..."

"Enough!" Christine snapped, nearly in tears. "I shall tell you what, Angel. I'm going to Perros tomorrow...I am going to pray at my father's grave. And just to prove that I'm neither shy nor frightened, I shall ask the Vicomte to go with me!"

The voice was silent for a moment.

"Very well," it whispered. "If you are bound to go to Perros, then I shall be there as well."

Christine looked toward heaven nervously.

"I am wherever you are, Christine," the voice continued coolly, "and if you have not lied, if you are still worthy of my presence, then shall I play for you _The Resurrection of Lazarus_ at the very stroke of midnight, while you are at your father's tomb."

She shivered. "Oh..."

"Yes," the voice whispered. "Perhaps you will—"

It broke off abruptly.

There was silence for a moment, and then the voice spoke again, awkwardly, softly.

There was embarrassment in the voice, and hope.

"Do you...love me, Christine?"

It was conversational, but it had the tone of a child probing to find if he could go any further, to test his limits, his bounds.

She sat upright, her eyes widening. "_What_?"

"Christine," the voice said, more desperately, as if begging, "you _must _love me!"

"Oh, how can you talk like that," she snapped, nearly bursting into tears on the spot, "when I sing only for you! Only for you!"

There was a noise at the door, a nearly inaudible scrape or scuffle. The voice paused, and Christine froze, listening.

The voice cleared its throat.

"Are you very tired?"

She sighed. "As if you couldn't see," she said. "Oh, tonight I gave you my soul and I am dead!"

The voice sighed langorously, contentedly. "Your soul is a beautiful thing, child," he said softly. "I'm not quite sure how thank you enough for it. No gift was ever given to any man, beast, or angel which was more wondrous than that."

Christine sighed, her cheek twitching. "Oh, _Ange..._"

"The angels, the seraphic legions," he added, sounding as though he were smiling, "wept tonight."

Christine buried her face in her hands. "Leave me," she murmured. "Please. I...I need to be alone..."

"Very well," the voice said quietly. "Do not forget what you have told me, Christine, about your...rich friend."

"I shan't," she said, shaking her head furiously and collapsing into a chair, staring into the mirror at her tear-streaked face and bloodshot eyes. "And you...you meant what you said about...about Perros?"

"Of course," the voice said. "I never lie, Christine. _You_ should know that."

"Yes, yes," she whispered, blowing her nose into a handkerchief. "No one knows that better than I..."

* * *

She felt him come up behind her, as she leaned upon the rail, and the heat from his body could be felt unmistakably when he paused just a few inches away, just barely keeping from touching. 

His breath mingled with her hair, and she shivered, closing her eyes.

It was entirely too sultry an evening for May. The air was hot, and close, and even the wind from the sea was warm and sweating.

"Tora..." he whispered, and suddenly his shaking hands had grasped her shoulders, and his lips desperately buried themselves in her curls, breathing in the scent.

It was in that precise moment, before she performed any sort of action, that she realized her boy had never quite been a boy in all the time she had known him, and the man in him was quickly losing its reserve.

And frighteningly enough, in the same moment, as time froze along with muscles and wit, she realized that the woman in her had begun to emotionally...and physically...respond.


	26. Pardonable Sin

**A/N: An important note, in case any of you might be confused with a certain phrase usage coming up in this chapter. The term "make love", as I've noticed in my extensive reading of classic novels, arcanely used to mean nothing more than simply expressing one's sentiments to one's object of affection, or making one's romantic feelings known. In _Emma,_ for example, the phrase "made violent love" is used, but it only means that the verbal expression of romantic love was very passionate and tempestuous...the only physical aspect would be, say, the grasping of a hand, or some other physical manifestation not having to do with intercourse. There was not necessarily anything sexual attached to the term until (I'm pretty sure on this, correct me if I'm wrong) the advent of the 1960s, perhaps even the '50s, but be that as it may, nowadays the phrase almost exclusively refers to sexual intercourse. In keeping with the time period in which this is based, any usage of the term "make love" will refer to its original definition and usage, not its contemporary one. For the purpose of avoiding anachronism, any reference to sexuality that I make or have made utilizes different terminology (although I did originally use the phrase in its current context in Chapter 6, it was altered to be more period-appropriate during my revisionary process). **

**

* * *

**

_Extract from the writings of Tora Preston, dated May ?, 1881_

My soul feels as though it is no longer my own.

As Paris draws closer, my blood begins to sing a dark and terrifying song, sensuous and daring, beautiful and wonderful, and infinitely unlike anything it has ever before given voice.

The ship bucks and rides, as though it were a male lover atop the treacherously deceptive womanlike sea. One moment she is calm and submissive beneath his demands, but the next, she proves herself to be as full of passion and rebellion as he, and at times quite tempestuous.

What a pair they are, the ship and the sea. Does the sea want the boat, or is she simply toying with its love-sick mind?

Things that I never thought would happen are happening to me all around, and I am beset by occurances which are beyond either my control or my understanding.

How is it that someone so innocent can hide such darkness, such raw and burning beastliness beneath a childish exterior? Has he ever been innocent at all, or was I blinded by my own judgments?

Thank God for strong legs able to provide a swift kick in a place where any such kick could have incapacitated a mule. Thank God that men are vulnerable!

Patrick made violent love to me today, against his better nature I'm sure. His passion alarmed me beyond reason, baffles me still, and now I keep my knife handily by my side when I sleep. Good God, he was supposed to be my protection. I never thought that I would be guarding myself against _him!_

It was odd, in those first few moments, what came over me as he began to reveal his feelings. I could not help the smugness, the flattery, the strange glory of being entirely worshiped—isn't it what every woman craves, in some form or another? What a strange and wonderfully perverse emotion that accompanies the revelation that you are wanted by a man, even if you have no real intention of fulfilling his burning need! There is something oddly satisfying about taunting that man, of flaunting yourself before him, of smiling secretly to yourself when you think of what he must be thinking.

I did taunt him a little, before I knew. I never taunt him now. The thought of what he might do—yes, my shy, Irish boy!—frightens me now, after feeling how roughly his hands kneaded my flesh and how fiercely his teeth nipped at my neck, not hard enough to break the skin, but enough to make it purple and yellow and everything in-between.

But I'm ahead of myself. We had gone quietly back to the cabin after the first moment on the deck when his lips were more or less innocently pressed to my hair, intending to speak like civilized people about his sudden passionate outburst, but the moment the cabin door closed, he became a man possessed. I shall never forget the slow frenzy with which he grasped me, how his lips breathed my name, and how awfully tempted I was to surrender myself, lose my aches and worries in a searing blend of worshipful flesh.

But it passed.

I think what woke me from my near-stupor was when he--I blush to write it, but--he grabbed my breast, and it _hurt!_

I remembered myself, remembered that this was impulsive, wrong, that I do not love him as a lover, and that—horror of horrors!—a child could result from something like this, this frenzied passionate embrace...oh, I love children, it isn't that I don't want them eventually, it's only that...well, great God, _not_ by Patrick!

And certainly not now, while I'm making my way back to...

Oh, his name is like a prayer upon my lips, my black-clothed genius who swathes himself in shadow and conceals his horrid secret beneath a mask of unexpression.

_Erik..._I'm coming.

* * *

Brown eyes opened, looked around. He was nowhere to be seen. 

Loosening her death-grip upon the knife she'd been grasping the whole nearly sleepless night, Tora got up out of bed, wiping grogginess from her bleary eyes, blinking when she emerged into the sun from the cabin.

She was still fully dressed. She hadn't quite dared to unclothe herself behind the screen, knife or no knife. She still would have been quite vulnerable...and terribly...accessible...

Shuddering, she looked around for him, wanting to put things right, if only to make things a trifle more the way they used to be.

She caught a flash of light-red hair, and stepped closer cautiously, not wanting to disturb him from his apparent reverie.

He leant on the rail, head in his hands, running his hands through his hair in a manner that reminded her of Erik, although _he_ had only done it with one hand, and the fingers had been so much longer...

She shivered deliciously. Only six days more until they docked into Calais, and then perhaps a day's journey or less to Paris. She would be _home!_

Patrick turned, blanched. He quickly turned back to the sea, pretending he hadn't seen her.

She stepped a little closer, touched him gingerly on the shoulder.

"You...I...you can't imagine how I feel...I'm so sorry," he mumbled, seemingly on the verge of bursting into tears.

"Oh, dear," she sighed, putting her fingers very lightly on his shoulder in a fit of concern, "we're brother and sister, that's all we are. Let's do act like it, now."

He sighed, and she felt a surge of pity that was overall quite sisterly, giving her the extraordinary urge to ruffle his hair. She refrained, however, still wildly unsure of her own actions and what exactly they might precedent.

"Nothing happened," she said. "Nothing happened. It's all right."

"I'm an absolute failure," he snapped, nearly talking to himself, "at everything. School...my own family...and you."

Tora drew back a little, taking her arm away and leaning on the rail herself. "I owe you an apology."

"No you don't," he muttered disconsolately. "I came to protect you...in part...although I must confess, it was largely because I wanted to be with you, just to see you, hear you, be near you. You captivate me," he said desperately, turning his head to stare at her.

Tora blushed, sidestepping a little. "Sister," she said. "Sister, not object of affection. God only knows what those people thought yesterday when you came up behind me..."

It was his turn to blush. "I'm sorry," he mumbled again. "I don't know what came over me. I'm really not..."

"Oh, I know," she said. "Don't worry. I know."

"Which explains why you slept with a knife," he said darkly.

Tora shifted. "Are you," she asked, attempting a conversational tone, "...ehm...recovered?"

He glanced downward. "Surprisingly," he said with a grimace. "You kick like a horse."

Tora blushed again. "I..."

"Don't apologize," he said. "I don't hold it against you...you were perfectly in the right, you know. I had no cause to..."

"Let's not talk about it anymore," she said quickly. "And do try to think of me only as a sister from now on, Patrick... Are you...are you perfectly capable of doing so?"

"I could be, I suppose," he sighed, and glanced sideways at her, trying not to look at her breasts. "Have you forgiven me yet?"

"Of course," she said, a bit too quickly. "We were both feeling odd last night..." She still stood a bit farther away from him than she used to, however, and it did not escape his notice.

"Chalk it up to the weather," he said dryly, and grinned weakly, pretending he hadn't noticed.

"I'm hungry," she said, changing the subject awkwardly. "Shall we go and get our breakfast?"

"Yes, yes," he said quickly, and he proffered his hand out of sheer habit.

She took it gingerly. They held hands chastely, like young siblings, swinging them back and forth as they walked, but every so often they glanced at each other warily, as if not sure what to do next.

* * *

Erik, fingers fumbling with his shirt collar, suddenly stopped, feeling cold. 

Surely he had not just heard his name being called, as though a ghost were floating through the room, a ghost he thought he had nearly buried in a shallow grave within his mind.

He tried to dismiss it, but then it came again, effervescent, tremulous.

"Tora," he said automatically, then twitched, feeling like an utter fool.

"Go away," he mumbled, just in case. "I forbid you to haunt me, do you hear?"

He listened.

The voice was gone.

A pang entered his chest...was she dead, heaven forbid? Was _that_ why she had been calling his name, floating through his mind? Or was it...

No.

She wouldn't dare to return. Not now. She couldn't.

_Could _she?

He felt warm, suddenly, a heat that spread to his lower regions and made him hiss between his teeth.

He almost hoped...he rather wished...

He _did_ want her to come back. He did!

He sank into a trembling heap onto his divan, burying his face in the cushion that used to smell like her, though by now the scent had faded into the regular mustiness of his whole domain.

Oh, what _did _he want? Christine? Of course he wanted Christine...

But did he want her as badly as...

"Stop it," he said between gritted teeth into the cushion. "Stop it, stop it, stop it. You fool! You utter, blundering fool!"

He shook, shutting his eyes, but logic prevailed. She was really better than Christine, in a large way. Christine didn't even know he was a man.

Could he ever have had the courage to reveal himself to Christine the way he had to Tora? Simple, straightforward, a bit of mystery, certainly, but still! She had known he was a man from the beginning...what would Christine think when she found that her blessed Heavenly Being was in fact a lying, rotting corpse?

Could he ever hope to win her this way? Or would it be lessons behind the mirror for the rest of his natural life, never to feel her touch or see her smile directed at who and what he really was, not the illusion he'd so carefully crafted with his own words.

He groaned, and tugged at his sparse dark locks, which, he had noticed this morning, were beginning to be streaked with grey.

Curse age and torment! Why couldn't either of them, Christine or Tora, have entered his life when he was young and strong and healthy, easily able to exert himself all day without becoming tired, able to go without sleep for days and not become fatigued or feel ill, and for vanity's sake, a full head of dark hair (it had always been a bit thin, but it _had_ looked nicer then). True, he had been as ugly then as he was now, but...

A thought invaded his mind, shaking him from his regressive mindset.

_Perros._

He shut his eyes tightly and sat up, willing himself to stand and continue dressing. He had promised Christine he would be there...he _must _be there, to make sure nothing took place between his lovely and that simpering little sailor-lad...

But she wouldn't betray him, would she? She was far too terrified of his going back to Heaven for good.

He vaguely thought again of Tora, and sighed. He mustn't think of her...he _wouldn't._

_Get thee behind me, Tora._

Stepping into the street surreptitiously, carefully shutting the Rue Scribe door behind him and pocketing the key, he hailed a cab driver. The fellow looked at him oddly...he was wearing his mask, this time, not his pasteboard nose, and he was certain he must look quite sinister to the poor man, but what did it matter?

He put some gold coins into the driver's hand. "Make haste to the churchyard at Perros-Guirec," he said silkily, "as speedily as you can manage."

The man nodded nervously, tipping his hat. "Yes, _monsieur..._"

"If," Erik continued smoothly, "you ask no questions, and arrive at the destination with satisfactory speed, you will be paid twice the sum in your hands. Is that clear?"

The man gulped, looking at the coins greedily. "_Monsieur!_" he exclaimed cheerfully, and grasped the reins, waiting for Erik to enter the carriage before he whipped the horses frenetically. The equine beasts raced through the streets, causing several people to leap out of the way of their thundering hooves.


	27. Accents And Angels

**A/N: Thank you all for your reviews, especially in light of the fact that I'm not as happy as I'd like at how I handled the rewriting of Leroux-ish elements in the previous chapter. It's been quite difficult to get all the timing right, especially coordinating Tora's sojourn on the ocean with the events taking place back at the Opera, now that timing is so vital, and blending the events from the book with my own ideas, and...and...you get the idea.**

**As always, don't hesitate to point out any revisions or corrections that might need to be implemented, or discrepancies between chapters...all that sort of thing. Heaven knows I'm always more than happy to accept a justified criticism when kindly meant and thoughtfully said, especially when I'm trying my hardest to write both quickly and well—anyone can write quickly, and many people can write well if given enough time, but put them together, and writing becomes much more difficult and very prone to mistakes.**

**There's a delightfully wicked literary reference in this chapter that should be quite easy for some of you to spot. Granted, that novel was written nine years after the approximate setting of Leroux's novel, but the exact yearly setting of the particular novel I'm referring to is never expressly mentioned in its own text, so there's quite a bit of artistic leeway there.**

**Eh...I suppose I should, as per my usual, warn you (though it's rather trivial, but I feel it my ponderous duty) about some brief, moderately sexual imagery soon after the second page break. **

**But I would think you ought to be used to that sort of thing popping up by now.**

**

* * *

**

Eyes closed, leaning back into a satisfied catnap as the carriage bounced and raced, Erik smiled at his own boldness, remembering the dreamlike events of two nights before.

Christine...what a triumph! And to think, he had invaded the populace after speaking with her, that seaming mass of flesh crammed together in the seats, so hot, so crowded, so _open_, though he had escaped too much notice by wearing his best clothes and his false nose.

He grimaced a bit when he thought of that little rat Jammes espying him, screaming his pseudonym of _Opera Ghost!_ during Sorelli's speech, forcing him to slip away for inconspicuousness' sake. If he hadn't, those bawdy, annoying fellows might have followed through on their cheerful, raucous clamoring to offer him a drink... what a monstrous joke they thought the whole thing was! He would have lassoed the lot of them if he possessed a large enough noose.

_I almost wish,_ he mused, _that the whole human race had one neck, and that I could put my hands around it..._

Delightful thought, that. Perfectly delightful. Of course a few select persons might be excluded from that all-encompassing neck—perhaps—but overall, wouldn't it be better to have the whole entire earth to himself? How exquisitely lovely that would be!

_I would never go through with such a thing, of course,_ he thought lazily, practically, _but after all, a man can dream...even if he is denied everything else, he is never deprived of his fantasies._

No staring children...no horrified women. No gawking men. No...nobody...

_But it would be nice,_ he thought, ever so sleepily, _if Tora were with me._

It was as though lightning had struck his brain. He sat up, shaking any trace of sleep from his head. He scowled murderously.

_Damn you, Tora_, he thought furiously, though her very name had become like a hateful prayer. _Will you ever go away and let me be?_

It was interesting to note that he had not imagined Christine being his companion if he did happen to be the last person on the face of the earth. She hadn't entered his mind at all, actually, for the space of several minutes, and he wondered suddenly, idiotically, if he was falling out of love with her.

_Preposterous_, he scoffed. _I..._

He imagined, suddenly, which one of them he would prefer to have with him for the whole remainder of his life, and reason shocked him into stunned stupor.

He pulled up the shade on the carriage window and stared out at the mindless scenery, cheek against fist, shutting and opening his eyes again and again and wondering if the whole thing was really worth it.

He ran his fingers through his hair again, absentmindedly.

_Of course it is. It is all worth it. It must be._

He slid his index finger along the smooth ebony case which held the instrumental key to fulfilling a promise, and he smiled, a smile which could have frozen the bones of the hansom-cab driver into ice-dust.

* * *

Five long, weary days were left, and Tora had begun to pace restlessly back and forth on the decks during the day...nothing to do, nothing but wait, and eat, drink, sleep, relieve herself, and watch Patrick out of the corner of her eye... 

She buried her hands in her hair, leaning on the rail, watching the sunrise—and the waves, the interminable waves, cut like cloth by the outline of the ship, parting like the Red Sea under its forceful prow.

She wanted Paris! She wanted little street shops, flower carts, cobblestones, the soft patter of French. She wanted light, and music. She wanted...

Unbidden, her eyes closed, mind wilfully tearing into her most lurid imagining of late...white hands grabbing at her buttons, tearing her dress down the middle in passionate frenzy, or...touching her nude flesh the way they had caressed the organ keys...sliding along her calf, her thigh, brushing lightly against her dark, smiling crevice, transparent sliding wetness coming off onto his hands from the eager lifespring...such worship evident in each stroke, such power, such mastery.

She smiled dreamily to herself for a moment, mouth open a little, licking her lips in a sort of panicked absentmindedness. She was indulging in the bloodrush, the hazy, obnoxiously erotic pleasure such fantasies induced, but then gave a start, shook her head, twirling a limp curl with her fingers.

She stared at the waves again.

In all reality, she thought dully, blinking against the spray, he wouldn't be masterful at all, would he? He hadn't the years of practice with that sort of thing that he had with his musical instruments. In fact, he didn't have a bit of practice at all. Or so he had implied, at any rate.

_Mmm_...but it..._was_ rather nice to imagine...especially the thought that since her masked musician had apparently been without such things his entire life, he would be so starved for it that the result could not be anything but wild, seaming wonder...couldn't it?

The smile slipped back onto her face as she allowed herself to sink once more into naive fantasies, her mind retreating from the present and falling langorously into the realm of the unreal. One hand lazily swung out, tracing the air currents with slender fingers.

Her elbow slipped, and she opened her eyes with a start as her chin nearly struck the rail, fingers scrabbling to stop herself from making painful contact with the iron guard.

She coughed as she fell on her solar plexus atop the unforgiving railing and she bent involuntarily over, breath stolen from her lungs by the blow as her head hung out over the sea.

_Confound it_, she thought, gritting her teeth and pushing herself back over. _Damn stupidity. That's the last time I lose myself in thought while hanging about the deck..._

She walked back to the cabin, combing her tangled hair with her fingers, and stumbled quite abruptly into a young man dressed in elegant clothes, who caught her arms and shoved her back.

Red-faced, she stammered out an apology, but then her eyes were drawn to his face, and she held back a gasp. His beauty, his youth, which somehow smacked of long maturity, was almost shocking.

He smiled...an innocent smile, but there was something behind it, something old and worn. "You're not the first, you know," he said lazily, "Well? Are you astonished at my beauty? Is that why you're gaping like a fish flung up on shore?"

Tora wrenched herself from his grasp, shaking her hair from her face. "I apologize for running into you, _Monsieur_," she said again, slowly, "but there's no need to be so..."

"Ah, you're French," he said. "Returning to home sweet home, are we? Where have you been these long months...or has it been years?"

Tora was rather unnerved...not by his ascertation that she was French, for her accent made _that_ painfully obvious, but the way he spoke about her absence, as if he knew all about it (and though she was sure he was bluffing, the practiced way in which he said such things, as though he were a magician performing a trick, was almost chilling), the way he stared at her, the way his eyes seemed fathomlessly secretive. She didn't like him, and she wanted to be away from him.

"Forgive me for not introducing myself," he said, smiling in a way that made her flesh crawl. "My name is D—"

"_Perdonne-moi,_ _monsieur,_" she said hastily before he could even finish his first name, waving a hand in his face dismissively, not caring whether or not she was being inexcusably rude. "_Je dois aller._"

She realized that she had slipped back into her French, as she brushed past him with a shudder, and she was glad of it. English wasn't at all her favorite language...other languages had a tendency to catch her interest more keenly. She had even picked up a bit of Russian while on the boat, listening to a man and a woman speak in soft-palate "L"s and rolling "R"s, and she had grown rather fond of hearing them chatter in their own language as they sauntered past her every evening on the deck. She'd wondered what it was, and had spoken to them in English the first time, wanting to know, amazed when she found that they not only knew English and Russian, but knew French as well.

Gavrie and Kiska were a wonderful pair, comfortably wealthy Russians who were becoming increasingly disturbed by the roiling social unrest in their country; the husband and wife had recently gathered all their money and sold their vast property for a mediocre sum. They were rather interested in becoming American citizens and were attempting to travel the world. Gavrie knew six different languages, and Kiska knew three.

Such things made Tora glad there was no longer war or widespread revolution in France. The country was always restless, but it was a peaceful restlessness now, settling into a nicely carved niche.

Tora opened the door to the cabin, thoughts dissolving into wisps, and saw Patrick shaving in the irregular crescent of glass on the wall that served as a mirror.

"_Bonjour,_ _mon ami_," she said lazily, flopping into bed, not really caring about the embarrassing occurrence three nights previously. It was behind them now, water under the bridge, though she treaded warily now, careful, guarded, and for that matter, so did he.

"_Bonjour,_" he said in a dreadful accent, making her laugh. His own Irish accent was not very strong, owing to the fact that he belonged to an upper-class family, a third-generation immigrant, and both his mother and his father had made efforts to Americanize themselves in every way possible, but the watered-down Gaelic colloquialism that had remained in his parents' vernacular from their own mothers and fathers exercised a peculiar influence on his attempts to speak French.

"Don't laugh," he said, turning red. "I do try, ya' know."

"Did your parents ever teach you real Irish?" she asked in English, fluffing her pillow behind her and turning on her side to look at him. She pronounced it, as she always had, "Ah-rish" rather than "Eye-rish", a fact that seemed to constantly escape her.

"'Eye-rish'...and at any rate, you mean Gaelic," he said, looking at her sideways with a rather disparaging expression...it was Tora's turn to blush.

"Yes, yes," she said furiously. "Did they ever teach you...euh...Gallic? I mean...eh...G...gay-leek?"

"Gay-el-lick," he enunciated slowly, as if he were talking to a child. He nicked himself with the blade, and winced. "And to answer your question, they did, a bit, although it's not necessary to learn it to speak with native Irishmen...it hasn't been for hundreds of years. Most of them speak English just as well as I, only their accent is terribly stronger."

"Gay...gay-ee...el...oh, it's no use," she said, blowing air out her lips. "Aunt called those sorts of sounds 'diphthongs.' Two vowel-sounds next to each other, like 'ah' and 'ee'. I never have been terribly good at rolling them off my tongue...some are harder than others. The French don't use diphthongs at all, if they can help it."

Patrick thought for a moment, looking at her contemplatively, and then grinned. "Say, 'Idaho'," he said evilly. "And no cheating, either. No 'Ah' instead of 'Eye'."

Tora blinked. "I...no," she said. "No, I won't."

"Say it," he said, a wolfish gleam in his eye.

She gritted her teeth. "Ee-da-oh...ehm...ee...ee-ayyy...da...oh, bother," she spat, and glared when Patrick laughed at her heartily. "Fiend of hell," she muttered nastily, fixing him with her Eye. But it was no good. He was laughing too hard to even notice.

"Didn't you say you were born in America?" he said, clutching his sides. "Shouldn't English have been easier for you to pick back up?"

"Not as easy as you think," Tora snapped. "The words aren't hard to recall, really, but the accent is something _entirely_ different."

"Yes, well, at the very least, you _should _know how to properly say the name 'Idaho'," he chuckled. "It could become a State in a few years, you know...and as you were born in the country..."

"Oh, soak your 'ead, Patrick," she snapped.

"Soak my what?" he asked, blinking in mock confusion. "My...'ed?' What's an 'ed?' Isn't that short for Edward?"

Tora shrieked and sprang out of bed, grabbing for the washbasin.

"Oh, no you don't," he yelled, brandishing his razor-blade, curved and gleaming.

She leapt back, panting. "Fine," she sullenly remarked, repeating the epithet she'd uttered earlier. "Fiend of 'ell."

"Oh, so now it's 'ell', is it?" he asked sardonically. "I do declare, your French becomes more prevalent when you're angry..."

Tora made a rude gesture at him and flopped back into bed, covering her head with the pillow.

"Will we never dock in _Paris_?" she moaned .

* * *

The Korrigans had not come that evening, had not danced merrily among the tombstones, climbing atop the graves. She hadn't really thought they would, or that they did in fact exist, but sometimes, on a moonlit night, she liked to watch for them anyway. 

He had surprised her, her long-lost old friend. She hadn't known whether or not he'd respond to her invitation, but he had, and she wasn't sure whether to be glad or apprehensive. Oh, heaven forbid the Angel should be jealous again—

Her head spun, buzzed. Who _was_ He? _What_ was He?

Was He really watching her, this very minute?

A shadow flitting on a tree caused her to jump, look about nervously.

No-one.

And there...there was her Papa's grave. It was a tiny tombstone, situated next to the chapel, and it was then at that precise moment that she heard the Violin.

Not just any violin...it was _The _Violin, the one which from the sound of it she could have sworn was of the exact same make, tone, shape and size...it was playing the tune he had promised, with otherworldly skill.

Oh, it must be Him, then! And was it really her father's Violin upon which he played? How on earth had he gotten it?

_No, no_, she reasoned quickly, it must be a Heavenly imitation, for how could immortal fingers grasp a mortal instrument of any type and cause it to bring forth sound? It was not logical...it must be a Heavenly Violin, made in the exact image of her father's, to bring her comfort, and joy.

And so Christine Daae stretched out her arms and closed her eyes, and embraced the seraphic sound surrounding her, enveloping her in its nightly song.


	28. Humiliations Galore

**A/N: I've just realized, after re-reading the previous chapter, just how sloppy my writing has become. Not in errors, just in style. **

**Someday I'll go back and revise that chapter. And perhaps the few that came before it. But for now, I'm trying to be much more conscious of flow and tone, so hopefully this chapter, though short, makes up for previous stylistic travesties.**

**That said, I simply must tell you that the Egg Fu Yong I am consuming at this very moment is delicious.**

**

* * *

**The blood thrummed in her veins with excitement. 

Three days. Three!

Her feet had begun to tap out an odd little dance on occasion, a sort of nervously anticipatory skip-hop, and she had grown quite used to the strange looks thrown in her direction.

"Bah! What do _I_ care," she said aloud to positively nobody, gripping the railing and feeling alive. "I'm going to see my Erik!"

There was a fluctuation in noise around her, an awkward pause, which quickly resumed.

Colors swept by her, white and pink and blue and yellow, ladies in their lightly colored summer dresses.

Her hand fluttered to her mouth. Surely she hadn't said his name out loud, had she?

Cold horror crept to her stomach, encircling it with icy bands.

Erik was private. Erik was...he was something she barely wanted to admit to herself at times, let alone the crowding masses on the deck.

_My Erik._

Was he really hers?

"He was never mine," she muttered. "No more than I was ever Patrick's."

Well. Perhaps that was stretching it a bit too far.

Perhaps.

"He'll have forgotten all about me by now," she said absently, on an impulse, wondering if it was really true.

_Could _he have forgotten about her? How would it be between them now?

Surely the easy, flippantly friendly way in which she used to speak to him and had managed to maintain even during the last few days at the Opera, when she was experiencing those overpowering and embarrassing symptoms of adolescent longing—all that would be in jeopardy, dominated by the nervous, shaking voice that she used in her dreams.

The past two nights had been full of awkward nightmares, in which she came back, ran to a tall, masked Erik, and didn't have the slightest idea of what to say. She hemmed, hawed, how-have-you-beened. He cleared his throat several times, and she grabbed his sleeve, begging him to speak, but he always turned his back to her, and disappeared into the wall like a real ghost.

She knew the dreams weren't real, of course, although she always awoke from them in a dripping sweat. They didn't even feel real, they felt symbolic.

Butterflies erupted in her stomach as she thought of what could happen, how she could possibly speak to him for the first time in two years.

Two years!

She felt bile, bitter and burning. It rose in her throat as if it were lava and she spat over the side, coughing, swallowing, trying to force it back from whence it came.

Tora inhaled the sea air, gulping it in great quantities, soothing and calming her treacherous throat.

"I wonder," she whispered, "what he'll think of me."

* * *

Ah, the violin had been a great success.

But the de Chagny boy was growing quite bothersome.

Insolent pup! He had known, he had suspected..._how_ had he known? Was he cleverer than Erik had given him credit for?

Behind the suspended heap of bones along the chapel wall had Erik hidden, a shadow blending with the night, but the snow was so crisp that he had feared he would be seen if he hid in any other place...such as a tree, a bush. Certainly the gravestones had been out of the question. None of them were even slightly adequate to the task of hiding a full-grown man, particularly one as tall and obvious as he.

De Chagny had dashed to the chapel, intending to expose the masquerade after Christine had gone, and Erik, theretofore unaware of his presence, was caught in alarm, a trapped animal, dangerously surprised.

To turn around and see that milk-white face, with the clear blue eyes so like an infant's, but with more clarity, more intelligence! To turn and see that dashing fellow who was now a clear obstacle in winning Christine away! He would woo her sweetly, no doubt, that strapping young sailor lad. At the same time, there was something oddly effeminate about him, something childish and protected, some lack of awareness of his own surroundings.

Erik was at that point, for purposes of his own personal comfort, completely unmasked.

The boy had fainted.

What a contemptuous situation.

Erik wanted to grin while thinking of it, for to frighten the boy was a triumph of sorts, but instead of triumph, there was a sick, slow, burning nausea in the pit of his stomach, turning the almost-grin into a sickly grimace. He, Erik, made even grown men faint.

Well. Three-quarters grown. He wasn't quite yet willing to accept the little Vicomte as a man.

Although "little" was a relative term, meaning young more than anything. In a wrestling competition, they might be quite well-matched, were it not for Erik's catlike quickness. He was certain he could whip that puling young noble in no time flat, before you could say _Tora Preston._

Wait a moment.

He blinked, twice, rapidly. He bit his tongue until he drew blood to rid his mind of what he had just thought up, fingers fumbling for the tea in the cupboard, his mouth pinched and drawn.

Damn it all to hell.


	29. A Most Varied Bienvenue

**A/N: Nice long chapter, here, to make up for the brevity of the previous one. I was surprised how little time it took me to write this; I finished it within a day. However, some elements of it bothered me for a while, and I went back and forth about either scrapping the whole thing and doing a complete rewrite or just revising it a bit. In the end, I just decided to leave it as is.**

**You'll notice the glossing over of many Leroux-ish points that don't need to be dragged out or explained in detail. It was getting quite tedious, rewriting every single thing that happened in Leroux—quite frankly, it was cramping my style, which is probably the reason for the mediocre nature of those particular chapters in which I did so; for the purposes of this story, I'm no longer deeming it really necessary to detail certain occurrences immediately as they happen. Everything can and will be explained later, whether in discussion or in thought, and in the meantime, knock yourselves out with the nice long chap. **

**Oh, yes. That vague literary reference in Chapter 27 was, indeed, Dorian Grey. Kudos to anotherblastedromantic for picking up on it.**

**Did I mention that I'm pregnant?**

**

* * *

**

How utterly painful was the waiting, the slow torture mixed with excitement so intense it was a miracle Tora did not vomit all over both herself and her faithful companion.

They had come!

They were here!

"Oh, at last," Tora sighed, relief and anticipation tugging at her brain, making her want to cry with the overwhelming wonder of it all. She grasped his sleeve. "We're here, Patrick! We're _here!_"

He smiled, a sickly smile that didn't quite extend to his eyes.

"What am I to do?" he whispered suddenly, his head whipping around to face her. "I don't know anybody...I don't speak French...I'm good for nothing, Tora! Nothing!"

"Dear, I did try to teach you a little," she said indignantly. "You're so obstinate in giving up that you never tried to get past your Irish twisting of syllables and vowels."

"But _what am I to do?_" he uttered frantically, fingers twisting between them a lock of his hair, pulling at it so that it seemed as though it would come away from his scalp entirely.

She patted his arm. "We'll find something, _mon fr__è__re_. I'm going to take up dancing again, if they'll have me, and you can work as a...as a..."

She paused. "Oh, bother," she said, her nose wrinkling up in perplexity. "What _can_ you do?"

Patrick put his hand to his face, looking to heaven in an attitude of noble martyrdom.

"I suppose I could always sweep floors," he said viciously, "but I'm a gentleman, Tora, and gentleman don't do that sort of thing. They live in a house and they have parties, and perhaps engage in overseas trade or invest in stocks and bonds. If word were to somehow get back to me mum and da'..."

"Don't worry," soothed Tora. "We'll find something."

"But there _is_ no rich friend!" he exclaimed. "The lie I told to my parents was just that! There's no one here I know, and if there were, I'd be even more frightened. To think what my parents would say if they knew..."

"Patrick," Tora said. "How many times must I tell you not to worry?"

"It's all well and good for you," he said, passing a hand across his eyes, letting out something between a groan and a sigh. "You have a life to return to, friends to welcome you, perhaps even your old work, but what do I have? Nothing, that's what!"

"Patrick," said Tora, "even gentlemen sweep floors when they have nothing else to do."

Her companion was very still, quite silent, for what seemed an age. People had begun to move, to disembark, and Tora pulled at his arm, anxious to be off, to find a carriage or train that would take her _home_, but Patrick was immovable.

"I could, I suppose," he said. "Mum and Da' were potato farmers in Ireland when they were young, or at least their parents were, did you know? They worked as hard as anybody, and now they're in the upper echelons of Bostonian society. They even conquered that typical American prejudice, as they like to call it. Irish are not well-looked upon in most social circles."

"Patrick, let's _go_," pleaded Tora. "We can talk about it on the way, please, let's be off, or the boat's liable to leave with us still aboard, and there's no way I can abide that."

He finally moved, taking her hand, and they pushed through the masses until they finally were on dry, cobblestoned land.

"Silly Tora," said Patrick. "The boat won't leave for at least a day or two. Don't you think the crew and captain need a rest as well?"

Tora blushed. "Be that as it may," she muttered. "So. Are we agreed that you'll find some work at the Opera?"

"I suppose," he said. "It might be rather exciting, after all. I wonder whether I could get a free ticket."

Tora slapped him on the arm. "Now _you're _the one who's being intolerably silly," she said, trying not to laugh. "Patrick, have you any idea what tickets to the Opera _cost?_ They won't give any away for free, and _certainly_ not to the hired help!"

Patrick shrugged.

"I could sneak you into the wings, admittably," she said, "and you could watch from there. Or even the catwalks, above the stage."

He grinned. "How exciting!" he sighed. "And just think, from the catwalks, I could see down the fronts of all the dresses of the—"

He let out a yelp as a small female fist connected squarely with his stomach.

"Pervert," she said. "You bloody _male_."

* * *

It was reported that after the incident involving both a chandelier crash and Carlotta's dreadful misfortune on the night of a _Faust_ performance, Christine Daaé had disappeared into thin air.

Bad enough that the chandelier had fallen on the head of the new concierge. Bad enough the managers had been walking 'round like ghosts themselves. Bad enough Carlotta had turned into a toad—at least vocally, although there were some who knew her that said she'd always possessed the personality, at any rate, of the aforementioned amphibian.

But Christine Daaé, the public's darling, who since the night of her triumph had not appeared in a starring role again, had vanished completely. It could not be explained. The patrons of the Opera were stupefied, and her peers were worried sick.

Such was the atmosphere into which Tora and Patrick were plunged when they finally arrived, after a long day's journey, to the Opera Palais Garnier.

* * *

It was indescribable to see her lovely city once more...it was just as she had imagined it! The streets were emptying, true, at the advent of dusk, and more disreputable occupations were just beginning to emerge from the alleyways, but Paris by sunset was beautiful. It was _home._

She tapped on the ceiling of the hansom. "_L'Opera Garnier_," she said in her lovely French. "There, you see?"

"I know where the Opera is, _mademoiselle_," returned the gruff, disgruntled voice of the cab driver. "I've been to Paris many a time."

"_Perdonne-moi_," muttered Tora, feeling the familiar blush creep up her cheeks. "But how was I to know?"

Patrick elbowed her. "What are the two of you talking about?" he muttered ferociously. "All I could make out was the word _Opera_, and even that was a stretch of my aural skills."

Tora waved him off. "Nothing of consequence," she said in English. "I simply told him where to take us."

The cab pulled up to the Opera, and Patrick stepped out first, offering her his arm.

"_Merci beaucoup, monsieur,_" said Tora to the driver, handing him the fee.

He tipped his hat to her and flicked the reins, driving off into the encroaching gray dark.

The two stood there, on the steps of the magnificent building.

"Well," said Tora, shivering, feeling the urge to vomit from excitement all over again.

_Erik, Erik, Erik!_

"We're here," she said, and, holding his arm as he proffered it, they made their way up the steps into the main foyer.

Patrick stared in wonder at the Grand Escalier, the network of three massively ornate staircases, one leading up to the two that converged to the right and to the left.

"Come _on_, Patrick," urged Tora. "We need to speak to the management."

* * *

As they walked the hall, Tora espied a familiar face, and lost no time in reacquainting herself.

"Gabriel!" cried Tora, running up to him and taking both his hands in hers, letting forth a soft babble of French that had Patrick shuffling his feet in consternation. "Well, do you remember me?"

He stared at her for a moment, and then it dawned on him. "Ah, little Margot!" he said, delight infusing his features. "It was said by some of the administration that you'd be one of the principal dancers before your twenty-first birthday, you know. I wonder if that would still apply. You are quite the lady now, aren't you?"

"Not really all _that_ much," she said embarrassedly, "I'm still the same old me, you know, even if my clothes are just a bit more fine."

"You've been in America, then?" he asked. "I heard the chatter in the _corps de ballet, _when you'd gone."

"Yes, visiting family with my aunt," she said. "I never knew I had any until she came, you know, and...but where are my manners? Patrick," she said, speaking to him in English. "This is Gabriel. He is the chorus-master here at the Opera. _Gabriel_, _c'est mon ami, Patrique._"

Gabriel nodded, winking at Tora. "_Ami, eh?_" he asked. "_Ton ami, ou ton amour?_"

Tora blushed. "_Non, non,_" she said, shaking her head. "_Mon ami._"

"Ah," said Gabriel, winking again.

Patrick looked as though he were about to explode.

"Tora," he said slowly. "Why do I get the distinct feeling that I'm being discussed?"

"You are," she said carelessly. "Don't worry your head over it. Gabriel," she said in French, "where can we find Debienne and Poligny? I need to speak to them about..."

"Debienne and Poligny,little miss?" he asked incredulously. "Oh, that's right. You weren't here...they just changed managers a matter of weeks ago. The new managers are Mssrs. Moncharmin and Firmin, respectively."

"Ah," she said with some trepidation. "I see. Do you think I could convince them, Gabriel, to reinstate me in the _corps_, and to give Patrick a job?"

"I don't see why not, with all of us who knew you before to vouch," said Gabriel. "Don't worry, Margot. They're a tough nut to crack, but they'll bend, no doubt, on account of your having worked here before. He," said Gabriel, waving a finger at Patrick, "might have a bit of trouble, but I'm sure we can work something out. Only let me go find Rémy. Rémy!" he shouted, setting off down the hall. "Come here for a moment!"

Rémy had just been going in the direction of another lavish corridor.

"What is it now?" the man snapped. "I tell you, if it has anything to do with our managers, they're not seeing anybody. They've been acting odd these past few days, I tell you, as if they'd seen a ghost!"

At the word _ghost,_ Tora blanched.

So did Gabriel. "Rémy," he said, "You know you shouldn't joke about things like that. For all you know, it might be real."

"What, real?" Rémy said. "The Opera Ghost? Indeed not!"

But his face had gone a little paler, and his eyes a tad rounder.

Tora felt giddy, faint.

"_The Opera Ghost_," she whispered, the moniker like a prayer uttered to a divine God. "_Opera Ghost._"

"You don't remember Margot, here," said Gabriel. "You never really knew her. She used to dance, oh, what was it? Two years ago? She's been visiting in America, and she'd like to be reinstated."

Rémy looked at her critically. "Reinstated, eh?" he said. "Well, I suppose that's up to the ballet mistress to decide. Run along, girl, and see if you can persuade Mme. Gervais to..."

"This young man," inserted Gabriel, "would like a job as well...ah, what was it you wanted to do again, boy?" he asked, turning to a stupefied Patrick, who realized with a slow, cold horror, despite his lack of understanding for the language, that he was being spoken to.

"Tora," he muttered. "Help."

"_Oui, Monsieur R__é__my_," said Tora quickly, proceeding to tell him that Patrick wished to work as a stage hand.

"Indeed," said Rémy. "Well, I suppose we could use another. Come along with me, young man, and we'll..."

"But, _Monsieur R__é__my_," said Tora, looking stricken, "he does not speak any French."

Rémy stopped dead in his tracks. "No French!" he exclaimed. "Then how do you expect him to work here?"

"I..." stammered Tora. "I...that is, I..."

"Young lady, if he cannot understand the French language, then he cannot learn how to lift the props, or to manage the sets, and he cannot follow commands. How do you propose—"

"He can pick it up," muttered Tora lamely.

Rémy shook his head. "Absolutely not," he said firmly, adjusting his pocket watch. "It is completely out of the question."

Patrick gathered enough from the negative expressions and gestures to know that he would not be allowed to work. "Tora," he said. "Tell them I can sw..."

"It's no good, Patrick," she said. "You'll have to learn at least rudimentary French before you can even do that. You'll have to at least be able to follow simple commands."

"No, no, people who don't know a native country's language work as servants all the time," he protested. "Tell them I can sweep, or clean...or..._something_."

Tora sighed. She told them.

Rémy looked at him. "He does not seem like a poor man," he said with a sniff. "Whyever would he want to engage himself in such lowly pursuits?"

"He simply wants to have something to occupy his time while here," she said. "We don't have anywhere to stay, you see, and..."

"Ah!" said Rémy sarcastically. "Middle-class tramps?"

"No, not at all," said Tora, alarmed, looking at Gabriel, who shrugged.

Rémy sighed. "Very well, _mademoiselle._ Go and speak with Mme. Gervais, and I will handle your little friend."

"_Merci, Monsieur R__é__my_," she said with a quick curtsey. "_Merci beaucoup._"

* * *

"Ah! Mlle. Margot," said Madame Gervais, her quick, sharp eyes brightening. "I should have known that was you...but I did not recognize you with your hair grown so long, and your clothes..."

Tora blushed. "My hair has always been long, _madame_," she said nervously. "I...I was wondering, now that I am here again...might I perhaps be reinstated into the _ballet corps_?"

Mme. Gervais put her hands together, steepling her fingers, leaning back into her chair. "Ah," she said softly. "But it has been two years, my little one. Have you been keeping up with your practice?"

Tora blanched, shifted. "I...yes, after a fashion. I made sure always to do the stretches every morning, mostly out of habit, and..."

"Show me," said the ballet mistress, her eyes glittering. "Show me, and perhaps we can restore you to your place, _ma __petite._"

Tora cleared her throat.

She wondered, suddenly, with a flush, if...if...

But no.

He was a blurred edge, a preoccupied smudge at the very ends of her brain. If he were here, or even thinking about her, she knew out of pure instinct and prior experience that his presence would be sharp, like the blade of a razor, sleek, sliding. He was only an echo, a faint and vague suggestion. It was clearer than it had been many a time while living across the sea, but...

"Are you deaf, child?" snapped Mme. Gervais. "Dance!"

Tora stumbled, trancelike, and when old habits struck, it was like the fall of rushing water. Accustomed to the familiar, lifelong rhythm, the steps fell into place, like the ticking of a metronome, the chiming of a bell.

She saw the stiff corners turn up on the stern mouth, ever so slightly, as if frightened of showing genuine delight.

She tried to end _en pointe, _but her shoes crumpled beneath the pressure and she fell to the floor, panting.

Mme. Gervais laughed heartily. "Ah!" she said delightedly. "You forgot you were not in your ballet slippers, _non_?"

Tora struggled to her feet. "I suppose after that _faux pas_ I will not be allowed to return," she said sullenly.

"You talk like a crazy woman," said the ballet mistress. "I would be mad not to let you return. You were a fine dancer in your day, Tora. A fine dancer. I shall never forget your last performance, in _Carmen,_ when you nearly put my best dancers to shame."

Tora swallowed. She suddenly remembered the precise events leading up to that torrid dance, and the memory made her flush.

"Then," she said slowly, "I am to be reinstated, _Madame_?"

Mme. Gervais waved a hand dismissively. "If you can pay for it."

Tora froze. Patrick had money, enough money to keep them alive for a few months, but she was sure it would not extend past that.

Mme Gervais smiled hawkishly. "You know, your wealthy patroness has not forgotten you. She was quite devastated when she noticed you were missing, but she had high hopes of your return. Perhaps you might persuade her to pay for your room and board again, if you do not have the means yourself to do so."

Tora sighed. "_Oui_," she said. "I will speak to her as soon as possible."

"Well," said Mme. Gervais, hoisting herself from her chair in a graceful movement. "That is that, then, isn't it?"

"Oh, _merci beaucoup_, _Madame_," said Tora gratefully, grasping her hand.

She shook her off with a grim smile. "Get to the dormitories, foolish girl. Quickly, now! I trust you didn't keep your old Opera clothes?"

Tora blushed. "As a matter of fact, I did," she said slowly, "but they are so old and worn, I thought perhaps..."

"It does not matter," said Mme. Gervais curtly. "I shall have the dressmaker fit you immediately. You have enough money for that, at least, I presume?"

"_Oui_," said Tora. "But..."

"What about your shoes?" snapped Mme. Gervais. "Your ballet shoes?"

"_Oui_, I kept my shoes," she said. "I..."

"Do they fit?" asked the woman. "Are they still in suitable condition?"

Tora nodded her head like a mute servant girl, quickly, alarmed at the brusque line of questioning. She had forgotten how intimidating the ballet mistress could be in one of her infamous moods.

"Ah, good," said the woman. "Go and get settled in the dormitories, then, if that's where you'll be staying." She waved with a sharp-fingered hand, nails long and menacing.

"_Oui, oui,_" said Tora rapidly, backing away and hurrying into the hall.

She was in such a hurry to tell the news to Patrick that she used one of the more forgotten corridors, a dark shortcut, and it was there, not paying attention, that she heard a strangled gasp, and stumbled straight into a black, foreboding form.

They went down together, flailing, and she realized, with a panic so sharp it made her throat close and her lips move soundlessly, that the leg beneath her was slender, far too slender for a man, but this was surely no woman.

_Oh, great heavens, no. I mean...YES! No! What..._

Her hands grasped the folds of the cape, and she fell backwards, letting go with a wrench.

She saw his eyes, his glowing, expressionless eyes, all she could see in the dim light besides the tall black shape, looming above her, and suddenly, without warning, whatever or whoever it was—and her brain was far too excited to discern whether or not it _was _in fact He—disappeared with a soft _whoosh._

Tora lay there, on the cold floor, dirt and dust gathering on her dress, and then she scrabbled upwards with wide eyes and a sorrowful, open mouth.

_Had _it been He?

_But if it was_, her mind thought furiously,_ why did he not say something? Why did he act as though I were simply another unknown ballet rat, wandering the halls? Why did he not..._

She looked around, eyes searching, too frightened to call his name, too embarrassed beyond words.

There was nothing. She was alone.


	30. Gone Into Shadow

**A/N: Thank you for your wonderful reviews. I've always considered myself blessed to have such great readers perusing this tale. **

**I've just realized that it's surpassed novel length, and not only that, in three months it will be celebrating its two year anniversary. Sheesh. I never intended it to go on for this long, but I'm glad it did. When it's over, I know I'll feel quite deflated and almost depressed, just because I love my characters so much. ****Finishing it will be like cutting the umbilical cord. **

**At any rate, this isn't over by a long shot, although, as the summary states quite clearly, it's "nearing its climax." What that means, I guess both you and I will find out, although I'm delighted that I've shoved all the necessary drudge out of the way and now I can write the really fun stuff again. **

**

* * *

**

It was difficult to say just how mad Erik thought himself when, by fateful chance, he crashed into a wandering ballet rat in one of the dark and unused corridors.

For shame. There had been something strangely, gnawingly, panickingly familiar about her shape, a familiarity so tender and raw that it had been tearing at his brain, but he refused to give it voice.

No. It had not been She.

For a moment, the pool of light from a nearby window had caught her face, staring up at him, and to be sure, his breath had caught in his throat, nearly choking him.

He was hallucinatory. He would have heard something. She would have called his name, said his name, he _knew_ she would have said his name...

Perhaps she had been too startled to do so.

Poppycock. It had not been Tora. If it had been...well, he preferred not to let himself think about that.

For now, there was the matter of another young girl, one whose innocence and candor was refreshingly alluring. Her abduction had gone splendidly, but what was to be a brief captivity underground had not heretofore gone quite as swimmingly as he had hoped.

He had humiliated himself completely. He had not been able to keep back his declarations of love, had not been able to ignore the look of horror upon her face. Thank heavens he had been wearing his mask, or else she might have been a bit more horrified, he'd daresay.

He deceived her once again, even though the previous deception, the most awful and ingenious one regarding his masquerade as her Angel of Music, had been laid bare. She had demanded her freedom. He had offered it freely, but then, desperate not to let her get away, afraid to lose her forever, he had employed his verbal skills to the fullest. He had sung, and she was trancelike.

Into the bed where Tora had once lain he placed her, and she drifted off to sleep like an angelic child in sweet repose.

How he loved her.

He loved her with a pain beyond understanding, a dreadful infatuation like the burning of hot coals. He thought he needed her, but...

There was a brush, like the tips of small fingers against his brain. Fingers that had grasped his cloak in a dark hallway...

Oh, no. Great God, no. It could not be. He would not let it be!

She _was _here?

Was it possible that it really _had_ been...

Oh, dear.

* * *

"Tora!" 

She turned, and was nearly bowled over by her former dance comrade.

"Suzette," she choked, not sure whether to be delighted or sick with her crushed ribs.

The dancer looked at her reproachfully, letting go. "You didn't write, you fiend. You never told me you were coming home!"

"I...oh," said Tora lamely. "No, I didn't. It slipped my mind, you see...it was all so quick, and Patrick and I..."

Suzette froze. "_Patrick_?" she queried disbelievingly. "You mean you have a..."

"Oh, Suzette, go boil your head," said Tora fondly. "He and I are simply friends. He came over so that I'd have an escort. He's really not so bad, once you get to know him. We're rather like brother and sister, you know, and..."

"But..." Suzette looked around furtively. "But what about..." She put her mouth to Tora's ear.

"_Erik,_" she hissed, so low it was nearly inaudible. She leaned back, her face white, eyes darting.

"I didn't want to say it out loud," she said, suddenly noticing the look of horror on her friend's face.

"Oh, Tora, dear," she said, grasping her hands. "Don't look like that, _mon amie._ It frightens me. Has he said something to you? Have you...have you spoken with him?"

"_Non_, I have not," she said softly. "I think I might have...bumped into him. But it is hard to say."

Suzette looked around again, and then turned back, her voice a whisper. "They do not like us to speak of it," she said in a confidential tone, "but strange things, most strange things have been happening here of late. Christine Daaé...did you know her?"

Tora was silent. She felt her body freeze, as if immersed in ice water, heart pumping so rapidly it felt as though it would free itself from her chest and spring onto Suzette's face.

"No..." she whispered, her face white as a sheet, giving shame to the slightly tanned skin which was a result of the weeks at sea. "No...it can't be. I mean, yes! I knew her, or knew of her, but...but...oh, no, Suzette, oh, _no!_"

She grabbed her friend's shoulders, staring into her eyes. "What has happened?" she asked hollowly, breathlessly. "What? In God's name, say what!"

"Tora..." Suzette grabbed her arms. "Don't speak like that...your face...your voice...how you frighten me, _cherie_..."

"What has happened to Christine Daaé?" asked Tora desperately.

"She...she..." Suzette looked around again. "They say she has disappeared into thin air," she said softly, nearly inaudibly. "The managers say she has gone on holiday, but none of _us_ believe that for a minute. We think..." she looked around again. "We think she might have been kidnapped," she said in a soft whisper, "by..."

"The Opera Ghost," said Tora, her voice a tremulous whisper. "Opera Ghost." A single tear lazed down her cheek, and she shut her eyes. "Opera Ghost," she whispered again, her eyelids fluttering, her lips pinching together.

Suzette blanched. "No, that's...that's not what we thought at all," she said. "We thought she'd been kidnapped by a jealous lover...or that Vicomte she's been hanging around with...dear, didn't you say the Opera Ghost was Erik?"

"Ssh," Tora hissed. "Never say his name so loud! Never! He'll hear you, and if he does..." She passed her hand over her eyes, gritting her teeth, turning away, fist to her mouth.

"_Cherie_," exclaimed Suzette. "_Cherie, _listen to me..."

"Let's go to the dormitories, shall we?" said Tora quietly. "Don't let's talk about it any longer, dear. We have so much catching up to do, and..."

"Tora, are you perfectly all right?" said Suzette, grasping her arm.

"Fine," she said. "I'm fine."

* * *

Oh, it was unbearable. 

Things had been going so well!

He had been sure, in the five-day sojourn he had planned, that she would get used to him, learn not to be afraid.

He had brought her parcels, full of clothing, from a different dress shop than the one he had perused for Tora..._why _did he keep thinking of _Her_?...and she had eaten at his table, drunk his wine, talked with him almost like a friend talks to another. Gone were her brusque demands that he remove his mask so that she might see who kept her in this underground palace. She seemed to accept him, if only a little, and he'd hoped...

Well. It was all gone now. It was dashed to the very depths of Hell.

_Othello_ had seen to that.

If only she had not been so inclined to think that under his mask lay the handsome face of her dreamed-up Angel, or any face at all besides the one that met hers when, with one swift, fluid movement, his protection was ripped away and his secrets laid bare.

The singing had stopped abruptly, of course.

He was not sure just exactly what he had done in those first, horrible moments, and he preferred not to think on it at all. Trying to remember was like seeing through a fogged glass window, dark and shadowy, memory of his hands, doing something...he felt of the scratches on his face...had she scratched him? No...oh, dear, no, _he _had done it. With her hands, her little white hands, grabbing them, roaring at her to tear off his face so that she might see if it, too, was only a mask.

Great God, _what had he done?_

He had not killed her, thank heaven. He _knew_ he had not killed her. He could hear her even now, sobbing in the other room.

He had scarred her, no doubt, in the area where scars take the longest to heal. He had scarred her soul, and now all was irrevocably lost.

He played upon his organ, losing himself in the tempestuous intoxication of _Don Juan Triumphant_.

Music that burned.

He heard the door open, quietly, only a little creak from the hinges, and he stiffened.

He felt his own tears on his cheeks. He was soaked with them. Oh, God, he _would not_ turn around, not to hear her screaming again.

"Erik," she said, in a desperate sob. "Erik."

He did not trust himself to speak.

"Show me..." she gasped, a hiccup emerging from her lips. "Show me your face without fear!"

Great heaven, was it possible?

"You are so unhappy," she said through her choking tears, "So sublime! You are a genius, you know that, don't you, Erik?"

Still he did not breath a word.

"Turn around," she begged. "Turn around and look at me."

Slowly, ever so slowly, he did. The bench beneath him creaked when he shifted his legs.

Silence, for a moment.

"If I..." she swallowed. "If I ever...seem...if I ever shiver when I...look at you, it is because...I am thinking of...of...the splendor...of your genius."

He fell at her feet, bewitched, possessed.

Her dress-hem was so near him...he kissed it, in a wild impulsive movement, and gloried in its scent.

Sweet child. There was hope after all.

* * *

The presence of the Opera Ghost was not fully felt for another week and a half, during which Tora was racked with something akin to the torments of hell. 

Several times...she could not count how many times she had nearly gone through a trap-door, in an effort to seek him out, but each time she flung one open with her foot, her heart failed her, and she lost her nerve completely.

Christine Daaé still had not been seen during this time, but it had been affirmed by many that her own surrogate mother, the esteemed Mme. Valerius, a professor's widow, had herself quashed the rumors by telling everyone within hearing distance that Christine _was_, in fact, on holiday. Her other happy ravings about an Angel were ignored; the woman was, after all, quite old, and given to long spiritual ramblings.

Tora did not know what to believe.

Patrick, meanwhile, was not thriving at all in his new position; he was white, and tired, often dirty and sweaty, and he was picking up French at the rate of a snail. Tora tried to teach him a little bit every day, but he was so exhausted that it often did no good.

"Dear, you _must_ try," she urged him, but he usually fell asleep in the servant's quarters while she attempted to speak to him, his mouth open, snoring like a walrus.

Tora walked through the halls, scuffing her ballet slipper on the polished floor, humming a tune she couldn't place.

She paused outside a darkened passageway, leaning against the wall, arms folded, still humming, gazing at the ceiling.

She thought she heard a whisper.

"_Tora_..."

It was like the sliding of skin over silk, treacherously indulgent, desperately wonderful, and it came from a place in the shadows just beside her.

Her head whipped around, but she saw nothing.

There was a rustle, and something slid out from the shadows as if it had been thrown, spinning on the floor until it came to rest at her feet.

It was a note.

Tora picked it up without reading it, clutching it to her breast.

"Is that you?" she whispered. "Please...is it you?"

There was no sound other than the soft moaning of the wind outside the windows.

She had half a mind to plunge into the shadows, screaming his name, but she thought better of it. Who knew what might be lurking in there? It could be one of the trap-door-shutters gone mad...with a knife!

Her trembling fingers unfolded the note, her eyes watering with unshed tears of fright and dissillusion.

Her eyes scanned the paper, becoming wider with every line she read.

"God Almighty," she whispered, putting a hand to her heart to stop its frantic beat. The tears fell, finally, and she crumpled up the paper with a sobbing, terrified gasp, running down the hall from whence she'd come as fast as her legs could carry her.

_

* * *

_

_Four hours previously..._

He heard her approach, soft shoes on the Persian rug.

There was a strange ease between them now, and had been for several days, especially since she had burned his mask.

It had been the white one, the one he had worn when he first brought Tora down...how strangely symbolic, he thought. He wouldn't let her touch the black, but was secretly delighted that she wished to burn that one as well.

"What is that you're doing, Erik?" asked Christine timidly.

"Writing," he said blandly.

"Writing what?" she asked slowly.

"Forgive my brusqueness, my dear," he said, "but it is none of your concern."

She was silent.

"I would tell you," he said, "but then I would have to engage in a very long and weary explanation, and I am tired enough as it is. My old bones..."

"How old are you, Erik?" she asked suddenly.

He stiffened. "Never you mind," he said gruffly, scrawling out his message in his favorite red ink.

"Ah," she said. "Something else that need not concern me."

"You," he said, "need to learn to respect your elders. Where on earth did you get that inquisitive little mind?"

"My father, I suppose," she said uncomfortably. "How should I know, Erik?"

"You know," he said conversationally, "you were much more respectful of Erik when..."

He broke off.

Christine's eyes darkened a bit. "Yes," she said, not daring to continue. _But that was when you were not a man._

"At any rate," he said, "I believe you should drink some lemon water. Your voice is becoming strained."

"Yes, Erik," she said quietly, and left the room as softly as she'd come.

* * *

_Hello, my dear._

_It has been long._

_You must forgive me for the cold reception I gave you when we reunited first; I was not altogether sure that I was in full possession of my visual faculties at the time, and as such made a hasty exit in order not to offend some poor ballet rat's tender sensibilities._

_I have since learned that you have taken up the ballet here again. How charming._

_I can only assume you did not receive my letter admonishing you not to return to the Opera, containing my gift of four hundred francs to do with as you would; if you did in fact receive it, you are a most disobedient child. Do you know what happens to disobedient children, Tora? They get spanked. _

_I think it pertinent for you to know that I am quite happy underground as of late. My loneliness has been remedied by a girl of singular sweetness and beauty, one whose name I doubt not that you know, for the rumors have been spread all over the Opera._

_You have not been to see me. I am wounded, but really rather glad. It would be quite awkward having to explain you to Christine, you see, and she might become rather jealous, and leave me. I would certainly not want that. _

_By-the-by, the masked ball is in two days. Delightful thought. I wonder if you'll be attending. I, myself, am planning on making a singularly spectacular appearance. I have no doubt that you will know me then, but considering your utter lack of any sort of attempts to communicate with me, I sorely doubt that you will try._

_You look quite ravishing in your new Opera attire. Your hair has become quite long. Perhaps I shall hang you up by your hair someday, or wrap you in it so that you cannot move, like a spider blanketing a fly. _

_Oh, yes. Congratulations on your young man. I applaud you for your poor taste, though he is certainly handsomer than I am._

_You should not have come back, you know. You have no idea of what you are trifling with by returning here. _

_'Til we meet again...perhaps at the Bal? Look out for dark corners. _

_Your Obdt. Servant,_

_O.G._


	31. Unforeseen Events

**A/N: I apologize for the wait, but I was trying to relax on my vacation, and I didn't have much time to write. **

**But the writing bug is wonderful. I had so many differing ideas floating around for this chapter that it took me a little longer than I planned, but I'm moderately pleased with the result. Hopefully you will be too, even with some of the more disturbing elements.**

**On a sidenote, I've started a forum for discussion about my fanfiction, mostly so that if there's ever a long gap between chapters, you can leave posts in there asking what the holdup is, and I can explain what's taking so long (I'm usually tooling around the site on a daily basis, even when I'm not working on anything). It's also a good tool when you want to ask questions about something, plot- or character-wise. It sometimes happens that I get a lot of PMs about a certain element, and I have to PM everyone back individually to answer the same question. This way, you can post the question on the forum, if it's one you're comfortable with letting everyone see, and I can post the answer so that more than just that one person can see it. You can still PM me, if you want, it's just if you think you have a question that other people might like to see answered, you can post it in the forum.**

**Think of the forum as a supplemental thing. It's not to feed my ego, it's pretty much for you guys, so you don't get left in the dark about anything. I had the idea originally because I've often been tempted to just insert a stand-alone Author's Note explaining why I've been gone so long, but of course a "chapter" devoted solely to an Author's Note isn't allowed by the TOS, nor is it very professional as a writer to insert such. **

**

* * *

**

_Erik,_

_You ignorant, self-pitying ass. _

_How can you pretend to play your ghostly games with me? _

_I've done nothing to you. I never received your letter, nor your four hundred francs. My Aunt is no doubt wondering at this very moment what she is going to do with all that money, for she's the one who has likely received it in my stead._

_But then, you're too afraid to speak to me and find this out, are you not? Just as I am far too frightened to speak to you. Blame it more on awkwardness than on a blind reaction to your hideously morbid insuations regarding my hair._

_If you are any kind of coward, you will _not_ meet me in your box on Bal Masque Night, at the stroke of eleven, nor will you make any attempts to contact me further other than offering empty threats. Though I would certainly wish it otherwise._

_Your Obdt. Servant_

_T.P._

_

* * *

_

She stared at the note, a smug smile of satisfaction creeping up her face. _Your Obdt. Servant, T.P._

_That_ had been a nicely sarcastically biting touch. She prided herself on it, perhaps a bit more than she should have.

"This should teach him," she muttered, stuffing the folded note in her pocket, searching for an envelope in which to place it.

"No doubt you'll think better of it in an hour or two," said Suzette forebodingly, folding her knees up to her chest, feet hanging a little over her small bed. "I've written letters before, when I was angry...they sound really wonderful at the time, but later, if you haven't sent it, you're glad you haven't, and you write something much more sensible. If you have sent it, you wish to God with all your might that you hadn't, and it ends up only making things worse..."

"Precisely," uttered Tora darkly. "I want to infuriate him. I want him to storm to Box Five in a towering rage, and I want him to confront me. I want him to _shout_ at me. Dear God, I want him to say anything, even that he hates me! Anything is better than silence and threatening notes!"

"Perhaps," Suzette said lazily, leaning back on the bed, "you should remove the part about the ignorant ass. It's terribly unladylike."

Tora used a word, then, to describe what ladylikeness could do with itself...

"Tora!" shrieked Suzette, collapsing in laughter on the bed.

Tora blushed and shook her hair, wrenching her fingers through it in an effort to calm the tangles. "It _has_ gotten long," she said absently, her face turning a bit white when she thought of the spider. He _would_ make a good spider, with his long, gangly limbs. The wretch.

"I'm going to do it," she said confidently. "I'm going to give it to Mme. Giry, and she can leave it in his box. That's how _you_ did it, isn't it?"

"I gave your letter to Madame Giry, yes," said Suzette, "but I never saw what she did with it. The old bat gave me the shivers."

Tora giggled.

"I feel...free," she said giddily. "I don't know what he'll do when he reads this, but whatever it is, it'll settle this chaotic mess once and for all."

Suzette rolled over on her stomach. "But what if he decides to do something drastic?" she asked worriedly. "You haven't been here, _cherie_. You didn't see the chandelier fall, or Carlotta turn into a toad..."

Tora whipped around. "Carlotta turned into a _toad_?" she asked incredulously.

Suzette rolled her eyes. "Well, not _literally_," she said. "Her voice...it was like a croak! And then, I've heard stories from people who heard the managers talking in whispers that _they_ heard a voice, like the destroying angel, say, "_Behold! She is singing to bring the chandelier down!_" And it fell, Tora! Right on the head of the new concierge! Mme. Giry had just been fired, you know, and the concierge hadn't even begun her duties yet! She died on the spot, and the old bat got reinstated at once! You'd think the Ghost had planned the whole thing!"

Tora felt her knees weaken, and she gripped a dressing-table for support.

"He wouldn't," she whispered weakly. "He..."

"It might have only been a story," Suzette countered lamely (though it was plain that she believed no such thing). "But the fact remains, the chandelier _did_ fall, and the concierge _did _die, and Mother Giry _was_ re-hired. It's all very mysterious..."

Tora stared at the letter in her hand. "No matter," she said firmly. "I can't rewrite it now. It will have lost all its flavor, and he won't come if he thinks I'm pulling a weak bluff."

Suzette blanched. "_Cherie..._remember what he said. Remember how his note was so menacing..."

"Bother his menace," she said. "I'll wager my right hand that _he_ was only bluffing."

Suzette shrugged, still wearing a worried frown. "If you say so, dear. You...you know him better than I."

Tora looked at it again, brow furrowing. "I'm past caring what he does at this point," she said sullenly. "Why, if he pulled me into a corner and...and ravished me, I'd..."

Suzette sat up, gripping the sides of the bed with bloodless fingers. "You'd what?" she asked hollowly.

Tora shrugged, but her own face was white as well. "I think...I...I'd...enjoy it."

The last two words were spoken so low Suzette had to strain to hear them. Her fingers went limp.

"You don't mean that," she said viciously. "You've never..."

Tora twitched. "Have _you?_"

"What?" Suzette asked bitterly. "Been entwined in the bed of passion, or been raped?"

Her friend shivered, her face pale and drawn. "Either."

"Neither," said Suzette. "Do you remember Jolie?"

Tora's face drained entirely of blood. "Yes," she said in a whisper. "I remember Jolie."

"She told me," said Suzette. "She _told _me what it was like. And she'd _fancied_ that stagehand, remember? She fancied him, secretly, until he..."

"Stop it," said Tora. "Don't go any further. You've made your dreadful point."

"...behind the set piece." said Suzette softly. "No one could prove a thing. The managers thought she'd been dallying with a lover, when she grew big. They thought she was trying to avoid responsibility by making up lies and excuses."

"I remember," said Tora in a low, hollow voice. "We would have all thought it too, if we hadn't seen the state of her after...after it happened."

Suzette turned away, toying with a stray slipper-lace that had come undone. "You wouldn't enjoy it," she said darkly.

Tora clutched the letter in her hand. "I'm going to Madame Giry," she said quietly, teeth worrying away at her bottom lip until it nearly drew blood. "The Bal Masque is tomorrow, after all, and..."

She broke off. "Have you decided on your costume, yet?"

"What, me?" laughed Suzette dryly. "I'm not going. Balls bore me dreadfully. What about you?"

Tora shrugged. "I'll have to make do with something..."

"But you _are_ going?" Suzette asked. "You're not just going to wait for him in Box Five?"

Tora shook her head. "I...I don't know."

"Tora..." Suzette got up and grasped her hand, so tightly that Tora winced. "Be careful," she whispered, letting go of her hand, and sitting back down on the bed, playing with her lace again.

Tora stood stiffly. "Thank you," she said softly. "I'll try...but one can never tell with Erik..."

* * *

He saw her, walking cautiously through the halls as though her slippers were made of glass. Like Cinderella!

Carrying something in her hand...a flash of creamy white was all he saw, and he wriggled like a worm through another tight passage in an effort to see her further down the hall.

_Why this madness? Why this obsession? Why, when I have..._

But no. Not really. He had come to realize the fragility of Christine, the frailty and delicate beauty of her. Tora was so strong..._she'd_ not break under his will, crumble beneath his intensity.

He had an inkling that if he had kept Christine underground for just one day more, she might have lost her mind entirely.

She had promised to return...no doubt from fear, but...

_Did_ she love him? Truly?

He doubted it sometimes, wondered if pity was all she felt, pity and friendship, and a long-ingrained loyalty to her old teacher, deceiver or no.

"Madame Giry."

He heard the words spill from Tora's lips, falling like crystalline water upon his ears.

Why did she want Madame Giry?

"Tora, my dear!" the old woman exclaimed with glee, wrinkles becoming more prominent in her crinkly smile. "How have you been, child?"

"I have...a message, Madame Giry," Tora said softly to the old box-keeper, who grinned a nearly toothless grin. "I think you might know who it is for."

"Ah, yes," the old woman chortled. "For _him, _no doubt...Is it the lady again?"

"L...lady?" Tora asked uncertainly, a little shaken. "What do you mean?"

"Your friend Suzette gave me a letter once," said Mme. Giry, "and said it was from a lady friend. He..."

"Ah, yes, the very one," said Tora quickly. "She...his lady friend, that is...wishes that it be placed in his custody as soon as possible, however you communicate with him..."

"Yes, yes," the woman lisped, taking the envelope from Tora's hand. "It shall be safe with me, my dear, never fear, the Ghost will get it soon enough!"

"I...I thank you," said Tora slowly.

Her body stiffened without warning, eyes suddenly darting to the ceiling as if pulled by magic.

Erik blanched. The grate was small, impossible to see through from down below. He had been as silent as the grave. There could be no way she knew...no way under heaven...

Her lips mouthed his name, and then she shuddered, and said again, "Thank you, Madame Giry," and raced back down the hall the way she'd come.

Foolish child. And now, the game.

"_Mame Jules_," uttered Erik tiredly, in the most impressive Opera Ghost voice he could muster.

The old dame's face lit up with glee. "Shall I put it on the box seat, Sir?" she asked respectfully.

"_Yes, yes, by all means, and then...walk away quickly, if you want to please me. I require nothing further today._"

She bowed. "As you wish." The feathers on her bonnet fluttered as she walked with a firm, light step uncanny for one her age, placing the letter on the box seat.

She hitched her skirts a little and traipsed down the stairs, whistling a tune to herself, one unfamiliar to Erik's ears, but charming, nonetheless. He must remember to ask her someday, what melody it was...

Slipping down to the secret catch in the wall, he opened the spring-door carefully, closing it behind him without a sound.

Up he crept to his box, flattening like a shadow against the wall, reaching his long fingers out to grasp the letter.

There was a clatter from down below. Erik seized the note with lightning speed and flitted to the hollow pillar, peering out from behind it to see what was the matter.

An old cleaning lady had dropped her bucket, far below in the aisles. She leaned down with slow strain to pick it up, her back already bent and twisted from years of stooping over.

He sighed.

He was tempted to read it here...but no, that would be far too risky. Suppose someone chanced on Box Five...for cleaning, or to prove their mettle against the horrid legend...oh, it just wouldn't do, that was all. He wasn't at all in the mood for playing the powerful _Fantôme_ this morning. That was a chore best saved for tomorrow evening, at the Bal.

Besides, Christine was roaming free, and goodness knows what she would do if she espied him sneaking about. She had just ascended out of the nightmare. No need to drag her back inside, not yet at any rate.

He slipped inside the pillar, down, down, down to the secret stairwell, winding ever downwards, until he was finally at the secret door which led to the lake.

He slid out like a shadow, walking slowly to the stone shore, peering into the blue-blackness.

A hand fell upon his shoulder, without warning or expectancy.

Erik leapt around like a lion and nearly fastened his lasso around the traitor, only to find...

"Oh," he said hollowly. "It's you."

"Indeed," said the sharp-eyed, olive-skinned intruder. Erik became aware that the man was blinking in the dark, trying to find his sight.

"You should know better, you Persian ass," said Erik, shoulders hunched, arms dropping from their defensive stance. He was so tired...and now this. Why now? "Three years you avoid me like the plague, and _now_ you come snooping? What's the trouble now? You know I don't like surprises..."

"Erik," said the man urgently. "I know about the missing actress. I know you're keeping her here, locked up."

Erik's eyes flared. "Locked up?" he asked dangerously. "I'd rather bleed to death drop by drop than lock any free creature up against their will. And besides," he said boredly, toying with his rope, "who on earth do you mean?"

"You know as well as I do," snapped the Persian. "Christine Daaé, Erik!"

"What Christine Daaé does with her time is no concern of yours, daroga," said Erik flippantly. "Perhaps she wishes to stay. At any rate, she is no longer here. I have let her return to the upper world—by no direct request of her own, you understand—and as you will see, she has promised to come back tomorrow evening of her own free will. Her own free will, you understand that, daroga?"

"Erik," said the man, "My duties as the chief of police in Persia are long since past. I am no longer referred to by that title."

"Fine..." said Erik tiredly, getting into the boat and clicking his heels against the planks to an invisible tune floating in his head. "I'm going now...daroga. Or would you prefer Emil?"

"Whichever suits you better," said the older man. "I daresay you won't let me inside that house of yours..."

"No...and you'd best not try to reach it, either," said Erik with a dangerous gleam in his glimmering eyes. They were all Emil could see in the dark, other than the shapeless black form of his body. "The Siren's on the alert, and she knows what to do with intruders. Keep that in mind...daroga."

"You say she will come back of her own free will?" asked the Persian suddenly. "How will I know she is not under your hypnosis?"

Erik stood up in the boat, rocking it dangerously. "Because I say so," he said between his teeth. "By God, Emil, if you test me anymore, I'm liable to come over there and break your worthless Persian neck. Always the detective, always the do-good spy. Well, it got you into trouble in your own country, and it's going to get you into trouble in this country, too, someday. Goodbye—_daroga!_"

He grabbed the oars—he used them in lieu of the pole when he wanted more speed and agility—and rowed away with a firm, strong stroke, making his long-unused muscles scream in protest.

_I must remember_, he thought furiously, watching the daroga fade away on the far bank, _to row this blasted boat more often... _

And then, another voice, inside his head.

_You are getting old, Erik. Old and worn. Why do you think you're so tired today?_

_Because_, he shot back, _I've never had someone down here for so long...it was a strain, being so guarded, so embarrassed about the smallest things..._

Ah, finally. The stone embankment leading to his house. Finally, home! And alone, what was more! Uninterrupted by Christine's stealthy padding into his room to watch him play, unhindered by her prying eyes when he was writing or reading.

He could read this letter in peace, whatever it concerned.

Oh, he was fond, terribly fond of Christine's sweet presence, but there came a time when one such as he craved total privacy for at least one day...

He lit a lamp, and opened the letter with a sharp knife.

"Let's see," he breathed aloud. "Let's see what Tora has to say."

Glowing eyes scanned the paper, silent, absorbing.

His mouth opened in shock at the very first sentence.

It did not close until the end, when he stood up, enraged by all he had read.

"T.P.!" he roared. "T.P., eh? You think you're a clever little beast, don't you...my girl? I'll...I'll..."

He sank back down onto the couch, the full portent of her final words on the page sinking into his brain.

"She wants to see me," he muttered. "Tomorrow evening...at the stroke of eleven! Ha!"

No doubt to rub her sarcasm and seemingly biting wit into his ugly face. Well, he'd show her what it meant to tangle with...

He paused. "Well," he said smoothly to no one at all. "We'll see what she wants to say, after all this time. She wants me to speak to her—I'll speak to her! I'll make her wish she had never asked!"

It was bravado. His knees were trembling, and there was a ghost of a smile upon his twisted almost-lips.

"Brave girl," he muttered. "Brave, foolhardy girl. To have the nerve..."

He broke off, striding to his pipe organ. He was in the mood to play something grand and depressing, before he tried on his new costume. It had arrived yesterday morning, at an empty apartment that he kept down the street, just in case of emergencies.

"Red Death," he muttered. "My, won't Tora be stupefied by that! Red Death! I wonder what that foolish child will be wearing?"

He amused himself for a little while, imagining what she might wear, when suddenly his mind went a bit too far.

An unbidden image came to him, of Tora in the sheer, revealing garments of a harem girl. Lying on lavish pillows, dark hair spilling all around her. Staring at him.

Beckoning with one finger.

He sat there, frozen, his eyes glazing a bit.

A strangled whimper came from his throat. He was glad Christine was not here to see the state of him.

His fingers began to creep downwards almost of their own will, but he shook himself into awareness. He was not so low as to descend to _that _anymore.

Still...

He shivered. Where had it come from, that dark, seductive thought? He'd never imagined her in such a state...any fantasies he might ever have had in the past were perhaps divesting her of her soaking wet Opera dress, burying his face in her neck. But that was a long time ago.

He sighed, and began to play, pushing thoughts of her from his mind as the music purged his tormented brain.

* * *

The chorus and ballet corps were abuzz. Christine had returned, she'd been seen in the hallways, only fleetingly, just a mere ten minutes ago.

Tora felt a bit numb. Christine...Christine had been with _Him. _She _knew_ she'd been with Him.

What had he been doing with her, down in the dark?

Oh, God. She dared not think it.

She clenched her fists against the sides of her head to block it out.

She _would_ not think it.

"Where, where did you see her last?" she frantically asked a passing ballet rat who was chattering on about the rumors.

The girl shrugged. "She was going to her mother's house, I thought. I don't know why she was here, unless it was to assure the managers that she wasn't dead."

Tora stepped back, ran to the favorite gathering-place for the older girls in the chorus. "Does _anyone _know where Christine Daaé lives?" she asked blindly. "I need to speak to her..."

The girls laughed in her face. "Christine, Christine," one sighed. "Blind little creature...got a glazed look in her eye. We don't give much thought to her these days, not since she fainted after the great triumph and completely put herself out of existence for a fortnight!"

"_I_ heard," said one eagerly, "that she's got her eye on the young Vicomte!"

"Ooh!" several sighed, giggling at intervals. "So handsome! He's not fit for one of us, though,_ that's_ for certain..."

"Nobility," sniffed Lise. "Rich aristocrats! We're the spit-and-polish rag with which they shine their shoes!"

"Amen to that," said Rosalinde, crossing herself. "They're the devil."

"Oh, you useless little things!" cried Tora in exasperation, fleeing down the hallway.

It would drive her mad soon, she knew, if she didn't find out _something..._

So lost in thought was she that she stumbled directly into the back of the object of her search.

Christine shrieked.

Tora fell backwards.

"Oh!" gasped Christine, whirling around. "I'm sorry! I thought...I'm sorry, I don't know what I thought."

Tora got up slowly, brushing off her dress. She stared at the girl as though she were made entirely of spiders.

There was a pregnant pause, as they looked at each other.

"Hello, Christine," she said. The chill in her voice might have frozen the center of the earth. "No doubt you don't remember me..."

"You _look_ familiar," said the slightly younger girl uncertainly, a bit unnerved. "I...oh, I almost have it..."

"Margot," said Tora. "Do you remember me as Margot?"

Christine shrugged. "I...I...oh. Yes, now I remember...you were in the ballet corps."

"Yes. And am again, now. But I arrived directly after your mysterious disappearance, you know..." Tora trailed off ominously.

Christine cleared her throat. "A holiday," she said quickly. "I came back to say hello, before the Masque tomorrow night."

Tora blinked. "Holiday," she repeated.

Christine's eyes darted, her breath beginning to quicken. "Well, I...Mamma Valerius expects me, you know, and I..." She broke off, turning swiftly to go.

"Wait," said Tora desperately, grasping the girl's sleeve, feeling close to tears. "Have you...do you...were you...I..."

Christine blanched. "Whatever is the matter?" she whispered. "Why do you stare at me so?"

Tora closed her eyes. "I am going to say a name," she said softly. "If you do not know the name, then it is of no consequence. But if you do know this name, do not scream. Do not be frightened. Do not run away from me as though I were a demon. I know him too."

Christine's face had drained entirely of blood. "Wh...who?" she gasped in a barely audible whisper.

"I'm wildly jealous of you, you know," said Tora absently, chewing on the insides of her cheeks. "I hate admitting it, but..."

"The _name_," said Christine, growing paler and more wan by the second.

"Ah, yes, the name," said Tora softly. "Here it is." She whispered it into the girl's ear, waiting for a reaction.

Christine stumbled backwards, clutching at the wall for support. "You...you don't," she said dizzily. "You don't know him. You can't. He never said anything about you. He..."

"I daresay he wouldn't," snapped Tora, growing more bad-tempered by the minute. "Here. Read this."

She fumbled in her pocket and thrust Erik's note at the girl's face. Christine took it with shaking hands and trembling fingers and read the page as though it were her death sentence.

She sank to the floor in a heap, still clutching the note.

"So," she said hollowly, her lips pinched. "So _that_ is what he wouldn't let me read over his shoulder...he told me to go away."

"Indeed," said Tora, snatching it back from Christine's bloodless hands and stuffing it back into her pocket.

Christine looked up, her eyes rimmed with red. There were dark, ugly circles under her eyes, more visible now than they had been before.

"How do you know him?" she begged.

Tora glared. "How do _you_ know him?" she demanded.

"You first," said Christine stubbornly.

Tora's mouth pinched.

She sighed in exasperation, opened her lips to offer up a bare-bones explanation, but Christine sprang up with sudden energy and clapped her hands over Tora's mouth.

Tora wrenched them off irritably. "What on earth are you playing at?" she snapped.

Christine's cheeks flushed with embarrassment. "Not here," she whispered. "We'll go to Mamma's house and talk in my room. _He_ can't hear us there, I daresay...He wouldn't follow us_ there_, even if he knew."

She looked around fearfully, as though a leopard were going to spring out from a shadow at any moment.

"Come," she said, grabbing Tora's hand and dragging her like an unwilling mule through the hallways. "We haven't a moment to lose."


	32. The Calm Before The Storm

**A/N: We're slowly getting to what I've been wanting to write for months, although the really fun stuff won't happen until the next chapter. Hopefully it's up to standard, even with my horrid morning sickness getting in the way. Some parts may confuse more than enlighten you, but it'll all be explained in due course.**

**Oh, by the way, if anyone wants to access the "Echo's Fanfiction" forum for any reason whatsoever, just go to my profile and click on "My Forums." The only thread there is for this story, but anyone can start a new thread concerning one of my other stories if they feel like it. I don't (feel like it), which is why I'm telling you.**

**Drop me a line sometime. I could use some cheering up nowadays, when more often than not my time is spent either lying in bed or bending over _la toilette_.**

**Just one more note: I made up a street name in the latter half of the chapter. I have no idea whether or not such a street in Paris actually exists, and if it does, well hey. That's artistic license, baby.**

**

* * *

**

"Patrick."

He rolled over sleepily, not wanting to feel a boot in his ribs, but unwilling to pass from the world of dreams just yet.

"_Patrick._"

"Grrmuffmgluggle," he splurted, waving a hand in front of his face as if to swat away an annoying fly.

"Patrick, you great goose!" screamed Tora. "Get up!"

She kicked him, predictably, on the sore place in his ribs where he'd been kicked awake many a time by the man in charge of the sweeping, a paunchy, cigar-loving tyrant named Grospierre.

"Ah!" he shrieked, holding a hand to the spot. "I'm getting...I'm up...I'm..."

He blinked, blearily.

"Oh." he said. "It's only you."

She pinched her lips, watching him as he fell back into his sack pillow, his body and face covered in a layer of grime and dust that he hadn't bothered to wash off for days.

"Look at yourself," she said disdainfully. "You're filthy."

"May I remind you, this was your idea," he snapped back. "What do you expect me to do, bathe in the Tuileries Gardens?"

Tora rolled her eyes. "There are places _here_ to wash," she said. "You just haven't found any, apparently."

"I have," he said dryly, "but sometimes it's just so much more _fun_ to be dirty, you know?"

"What biting sarcasm, my dear boy," she said silkily. "I need to talk to you, but I can see that doing so would be an utter waste of time."

"I'm going back to America," he groaned. "You're back in the ballet, you don't need me. You don't want me, you barely even speak to me anymore. I've gone from rich Irish aristocrat to filthy sweeping pauper in just a matter of weeks, and it's all your bloody fault."

"Soak your head," she snapped. "By God, go, for all I care...just make sure to say goodbye to me before you go...I _do _care for you, you know, you're like my..."

"Don't say brother," he groaned. "I'm sick to death of that word. You know what I wanted. God knows I'd still be happy to get affection of another kind from you, still, but I'm no longer hungry for it."

Tora threw her hands up in the air. "I'm finished," she said. "Do what you want. I'm going to get my costume ready for tonight."

"Where were you yesterday?" he queried groggily. "I didn't see you all day."

Tora turned away. "Nowhere that concerns you," she said. "I was talking with an acquaintance about an old...friend. It took a long time."

"Apparently," he groaned, rolling over. "I'm going to get in a few more moments of sleep before Gross Pierre comes to rudely awaken me."

Tora giggled. "It's pronounced..."

"Yes, I _know_," snapped Patrick. "I say it that way on purpose, don't you realize?"

Tora mulled it over. "Oh," she said, giggling a little again. "I suppose that _is_ rather funny..."

"Yes, well, it won't be if he catches me dozing off on my broom handle," Patrick groused, covering his face with half the pillow.

Tora glanced away. "Dear, I'm sorry that I..."

"Don't worry your head about it," the muffled voice from behind the pillow said. "Go...go and get your costume."

Tora threw her hands up in the air and ran to the dormitories, which were mercifully empty at this time of day. The girls were out, doing last-minute shopping and mingling.

She spied a flash of creamy white atop her greyed pillow, and she stopped cold.

The note bore one word, her given name, in childish red scrawl, and somehow without even thinking about it she knew from whom it was.

Slowly she picked it up, as though it contained explosives (she was not at all entirely sure that it didn't...after all, it _was _Erik), and carefully unfolded the note contained therein.

_Tora, my dear,_

_I apologize for what you must have perceived as abrupt rudeness. How delightful to see you have some real backbone. I look forward to our little appointment in Box Five. _

_'Til then, _

_O.G._

_P.S. I am aware that you lack sufficient funds to purchase a decent costume, particularly at this late hour, and as I would very much like to see you looking your best this evening, I have enclosed a sizeable amount of money with which you may buy what you will. Keep whatever is left over; I daresay I don't begrudge a single sou. Most of these francs were once your charming managers', at any rate._

_P.P.S. I highly recommend L'Elegante on the Rue Regal. A blood-red shade would be ravishing. Do be sure, whatever you do, to tell them that Erik sent you._

_And you know that I shall be perfectly aware if you do not use my money to buy your attire; whatever I have been, I have always had excellent taste, and you cannot possibly buy something in even mediocre taste at this late date with your pitiful earnings. I would not dare to presume what might happen were I to become aware that you had rejected my generous gift._

_I shall spot you before eleven, I am sure, traipsing 'round the ballroom floor with some dashing young dandy on your arm—and there can be no doubt that you will recognize me, for my costume will be, I promise you, quite unmistakable. However, I shall see you at eleven precisely, in my Box, and do not be a moment late, for Erik is most displeased when people miss their appointments._

_I remain,_

_Your Obdt. Servant._

* * *

Christine slipped into her shimmering white domino, slowly, trancelike, feeling as though she were in a torturous dream. 

Erik didn't know about the note, the one she'd let flutter out of the cab to Raoul last week, as he recognized her pale face in the moonlight and had begun racing after the hansom, yelling. It had been so strange, that night, full of unexpected surprises. She hadn't known she'd have the courage to make such a bold move...she wondered if he'd even seen it.

If all went as planned this evening...

She almost didn't like to think about it. Tora was jealous of her? She was jealous of Tora, if such a thing were humanly possible.

Much as she was frightened and at times (though it shamed her) repulsed by Erik's devotion, and the man himself, there was something flattering, almost frightfully endearing about the whole affair.

He worshiped her, after all. Or at least he seemed to.

To think that there was another woman that he wanted in any way, shape or form...it was relieving, in a way, but at the same time, it made her bristle. There had been something freakishly sensuous about the thought that he desired and loved her so completely, that she was the sole object of his desperate affection. To think that she "shared" him with someone else was...it was...

Well, whatever it was, it made her stomach churn in confused envy.

_I should be relieved_, she thought, but the idea gave her no comfort.

She _did _have a strange sort of fondness towards him, something akin to what she might feel for a mentor, an older friend...it wasn't _romantic_, at all, it was simply...

What?

She shoved her bundle of letters back into the drawer's secret compartment and sat there, panting.

"It isn't fair," she said out loud. "I wish he didn't love me...everything would be so much easier then...because I wouldn't have to be confused. We could _talk _about things. I wouldn't be ashamed, I wouldn't be putting on some sort of farce...he expects me tonight, he expects me! I wonder if he will expect me, still, when..."

She clamped her mouth shut. Sometimes the maid listened outside the doors. One could never tell.

Christine buried her face in her hands, white-gold curls whispering against her fingers, her wrists, down to her elbows. She grabbed a handful of it, stared at the stuff as though it were hemp rope.

Erik had said something, once, about the shining tresses. She remembered it now, with a rush of guilt and hot embarrassment.

"Your hair," he had said abruptly, in a fit of unconventional boldness, only a day after she had burnt his mask, "it's like a cascade. A shimmering, glorious cascade of..."

And then he'd fallen silent, as though embarrassed beyond words by such a passionate outburst.

She'd wanted to flee from the room, to escape the awkward, oppressive silence that followed. Thank heavens her hair was long and thick enough to hide her burning cheeks when she tipped it forward, willing herself to disappear, to hide.

"...opulent goddess curls," he had muttered, finishing his sentence, and then coughed, sounding like some rich old gentleman, quickly turning on the bench to finish scribbling away at some random composition he was writing.

The splash of hot tears was more humiliating than the silence. She'd been glad he couldn't see.

"Forgive me," he'd said, not looking at her, still scribbling. "I shouldn't bother you with such embarrassing sentiments."

"No, no," she'd managed, still dripping tears, and then, unable to continue, "I...I'm going to...my room."

His shoulders hunched, stiffened. Not a word of protest issued from his mouth. She knew she'd hurt him, but she couldn't bear to stay there for one more moment.

"Does it bother you," he'd said suddenly, when she had arisen and nearly fled the room, "to hear how beautiful you are?"

Her eyes were closed, her mouth barely knowing when she whispered, "Yes," and then her feet had overtaken her, and the door to her room was shut and latched by her trembling fingers before any more words could be spoken between them.

And then, the treacherous, shameful continuance in her mind of what she'd spoken.

_But only when I hear it from you._

She felt sick, remembering it.

_Back to the present, damned thoughts. Focus on the task at hand._

The Bal was in less than an hour, she realized, with a rush of blind, blackening panic. Her fingers trembled, nearly tore off her fancy dress in an impulsive effort not to attend, but her mind stopped her in her tracks.

_No, no, you must go. You must. Too much depends upon it to forsake._

* * *

_Six hours previously..._

"_Bonjour, madame_," said Tora nervously, fingering the bills in her pocket. She gritted her teeth when she thought of pandering to Erik's demands, but...he was right, after all. There was nothing to buy, nothing decent at any rate, when it was just hours before the Bal. When she'd arrived at the Opera with Patrick and heard about the event, she'd put off buying anything until she was sure that the prices would perhaps go down, but to her dismay, they had only gone up. Shopkeepers were fully aware of last-minute stragglers who were desperate to buy something, anything, to wear to the illustrious masquerade.

"Ah!" The owner of the shop was a tall, hawklike woman, with a hooked Roman nose and a prominent chin.

_Not exactly who you'd expect to be running one of the most exclusively fashionable shops in Paris,_ thought Tora irreverently.

The woman, perhaps sensing Tora's attitude, sniffed arrogantly. "Are you lost, by any chance?" she sneered imperiously.

"Not at all," snapped Tora. "I wonder...do you have anything in my size? Perhaps...a blood-red shade?"

It was impulsive. She seriously doubted that they had anything of the kind.

The storekeeper looked at her oddly.

Tora sighed.

"Erik sent me," she said resignedly, having another supremely irreverent thought. _Erik the Conniving Nincompoop._

The woman blinked. "Wait here a moment," she said silkily, gliding off to the back room to fetch something.

Tora drummed her fingers on the countertop, humming absently.

She suddenly had an awful inkling.

_Oh, he wouldn't._

Out came the woman, holding an elegant box. She removed the top and gestured for Tora to look inside.

Tora stared.

_He would._

"It has already been half-paid for in advance," said the woman, shoving a piece of paper at her with a large figure written on it. "My poor tailors were up all night working on this. He demanded that we finish it by this morning, or he would take his money back. Strange man, that one...is he your father?"

Tora gritted her teeth. "No," she said, counting out the rest of what was owed and placing it on the counter carefully.

"Your uncle?"

Tora grabbed the box. "Thank you," she said. "This will do fine. My regards to your tailors."

She suddenly took a handful of leftover bills from her pocket and flung them on the counter. "Give them this for their trouble. I am sorry that they had to work so late."

The shopkeeper took the money without a word. Tora closed up the box and left the store, muttering under her breath.

* * *

Erik leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. Half an hour before the Bal began. What a complicated game this was turning out to be. 

He had an odd feeling that he had awoken from a stupor, a blind haze in which he had been tramping for far too long.

He was painfully aware of Christine, of her blind obedience and her childish ways. He loved her still, but it was evolving into a different sort of love, one that was more sensible and rational—not the wild, daring passion that he had plunged himself into during these long past months. He was no longer mad for her—something that he was almost relieved to find. It was extraordinary, really, what the return of Tora had done for his obsession with the golden-haired nightingale.

He didn't know what he felt for Tora—at least this new, angry little baggage that seemed to delight in tormenting him at every turn. He supposed it was impossible to get the old one back, the one that was so fascinated with him, who let his little quirks roll off her back as though she were a duck warding off water. But she was grown-up, now, and for that, he felt a sense of loss. She had been so endearing in those early days, a woman beneath the surface, but a girl-child on the outside, just beginning to awaken into her womanhood.

He regretted not seeing the change occur. It might have been less of a blow had he actually been there to witness her coming-of-age, whenever that had been.

He wished she had never grown up. Now she was too sure, too confident.

She was too...too...oh, what _was _it, possibly? Too American?

He grinned at the thought.

Conversely, he would actually like to see Christine go through a similar change. She deserved to be plucky and daring, to reach for what she wanted and grasp it from the sky. He would be happy, he realized suddenly, to see her settle down with a good young man and have dozens of cherubic children. She needed such a life, or she would wither in the dark, crying out with her last breath. He could only watch, and smile as she danced into her happiness, but she was not his to have or to hold. It would kill her, suffocate her, as surely as a Punjab noose.

Leaning his head on his fist, he contemplated the pattern in the wood-grain on his table, following it with his eyes as it swooped and curved and dripped in vertical arcs.

"It is simply not my lot to have anybody," he breathed, tracing it with his fingers.

Christine was not for him, that was certain now, and he sorely doubted that Tora would have him, after their little spat in letters.

Well. They might be friends, at least, after their little chat in Box Five, and who knew what might follow after that.

He was tired, and past caring, and all he wanted was for the strike of eleven.

But he must make his appearance, his grand entry, well before then.

On went the feathered hat, its plumes resembling flaming fox-tails, orange, red, yellow.

He wore no mask. It would be pointless, for after all, was he not the very personage of Death this evening?

_I am so weary,_ he thought. _So tired. But I must put on a good face for the guests!_

The idea made him pause, suddenly striking him as quite ridiculous, and it made him laugh uproariously, clutching his sides. "A good face!" he gasped, chuckles bursting out of him in spurts. "Oh...oh..."

He straightened himself, feeling a burst of long-gone energy. It was time to shock them all!

Before he went, he paused.

He suddenly grabbed his mask, the smaller one that left his lips exposed, and stuffed it into a hidden pocket. The black one wouldn't match, and he preferred this one anyway, when possibly engaging in long, awkward conversations. It was better for breathing...

He was nervous, about the meeting. The Bal was one thing, but a private conversation—with someone who knew perfectly well that his hideous visage was not simply a horrific mask—was entirely another.

Christine could look at him now without batting an eyelid, but he wasn't entirely sure Tora could manage the same, up close. He didn't care to watch her face turn pale, or to see her grimacing and surreptitiously looking away the entire time they were talking.

It was simply best to take precautionary measures.


	33. Masquerades

**A/N: I am forced to note here, to avoid in advance the offending any of my readers, that there is a racial slur used exactly once in this chapter. **

**For the record, though it probably makes little difference, I myself am chock-full of Irish ancestry, and I am no more negatively prejudiced towards the Irish than I am towards any other race, ethnicity, nationality or culture--not the slightest bit.**

**This particular slur was, like it or not, quite common during the time period in which this story takes place. I hope every reader here is sensible enough not to be appalled at the fact that I included it in the thought processes of a character in this chapter. I did try to look up the French equivalent to be a bit more authentic, but couldn't find one. **

**The character who uses this slur does not even utilize it out of hatred or dislike for the race itself, but as a defensive mental backlash against a certain Irish character whom I think you all know. (So don't go around telling everybody that I made Erik a racist, all right? Because I didn't. And kindly remember that before complaining or commenting about it to me in a review or PM.) :)**

**Anyway, if you actually take offense at the fact that I had a **_**nineteenth-century-period**_** character use what was at that time a largely socially acceptable derogatory racial term, then, I am sorry to say, the problem lies with you. Not me as a writer. To take such an attitude would be much the same as being offended by an author writing about Civil War-era America including the n-word as part of a Southern or even Northern character's dialogue. It's part of history. Just because it was as ethically wrong then as it is now doesn't change the fact that it was used and, by many, considered acceptable at that time. As my Brit Lit teacher would say, taking offense at things like that in someone's writing when no offense is meant is "seeing evil where there is none."**

**I hate that I actually felt I had to include something like this in the author's note, but I never know who may be reading, and I am sensitive to the fact that some people take offense very easily to certain things, even when none whatsoever is meant. If nothing else, the unit on censorship in my Young Adult Literature class has taught me that. Did you know, for example, that _Huckleberry Finn _is the most school- and library-banned book of the twentieth AND twenty-first centuries? How absolutely ridiculous. But I won't go into that now.**

**With that cleared and out of the way (thank Heavens), I **_**really **_**hope you enjoy this colossal chapter as much as I thoroughly enjoyed writing it. **

**

* * *

**

Tora looked at herself in the mirror, seemingly without emotion, mechanically turning on one heel to inspect the back of herself in the cheap, slightly distorted glass. There was only one full-length mirror in the ballet dormitories; the management thought it neither economical nor necessary to provide more, or even one a bit better.

She relished this one glorious moment to herself; in a minute _les rats_ would be upon her, clamoring for a look at themselves in their Bal finery, vain as peacocks and just as stupid.

Suddenly, disregarding the heretofore expressionless examination of her own bedorned body, she leaned closer and peered at her own face for a fleeting moment.

Her eyes stared into the glass; the mirror's eyes, just as dark and even more enigmatic, blinked their eyelashes in response—how long they were, she thought in a brief flight of her own vanity.

She felt color rise to her cheeks. How odd this was, to examine herself in this way. She had always known, somewhere in the very depths of her brain, that men—and boys, for that matter, she thought with a brief grin, thinking of Patrick— often found her attractive.

It was not something she reflected upon often in the first place, for it made her uncomfortable rather than pleased (though at times there were elements of coy gratification in the thought), and now, thinking of Erik…Erik was so different. His aesthetic eye was so…how could one put it? He had such a knack for beautiful things. His music was gorgeous, stupendous; his voice, if her memory of his singing was not a dream, caused the most breathtaking, very nearly _erotic_ sensations.

Tora suddenly felt warm all over.

It was a singular sort of heat, the kind which smacked of an embarrassed blush and yet, at the same time, made the very tips of her extremities tingle, nearly curl with sudden, fleeting pleasure. It was overwhelming, and it was all too brief.

"Why would he ever want to…" She stopped here, her lips pinching, and then she continued disjointedly, as if her voice had continued all the time but been temporarily inaudible, "…with _me._"

Tora twirled a loose strand of hair around her finger. "He has Christine," she said softly, barely audible in a whisper. "She does not love him, but he has Christine. Why would one such as he, with such an eye for beauty, such elegant taste, choose the mere moon…over the glory of the sun at noonday?"

She patted her pile of curls irritably, making sure they were all in place, and then stared at herself one last time.

"He has done all _this_ for me," she said off-handedly, staring at the perfectly matched shoes which had been especially delivered to her very bedside by an unknown hand only ten minutes before she had returned from the shop with her gown and masque.

The note enclosed read: _Wouldn't want to forget these. How strange that they should turn up at your bedside just like that, isn't it—like magic!_

She had nearly torn it up, feeling utterly infuriated by his childish idea of petty wit, but instead had ended up sitting there on her worn-out mattress, silently re-reading that silly little note for nearly thirty minutes before she came to her senses and began to dress.

It was ten minutes before the clock would strike nine.

She heard the chatter of the little peacock-sparrows in the hall, and wondered idly why they hadn't come earlier. They did love to do things at the last minute, she thought, and they had probably been lingering in the shops, the streets, nervous and excited.

She slowly raised her deep red, jewel-encrusted masque to her face, holding its creamy ivory stick with one hand, like a genuine lady.

Her lips curled up a little in a barely visible smile, and she suddenly felt a surge of confidence. What did it matter, this night? All would be well; she would have herself a fine time, Erik or no Erik, and if there _was_ Erik, then…all that would take care of itself in due course, when eleven came time to strike.

* * *

Patrick surprised her in the halls. He was, to her utter shock, dressed in a jet-black tailed suit and hat, of all things. 

"You must have brought that with you from Boston," she exclaimed, "and been saving it all this time!"

He shrugged. "Luckily I was able to stash my suitcase in a place where it wouldn't be found and looted by the other bits of 'help'. But—this sounds so funny to me to say, after all these months of living as a dirty sweeper—I'm in desperate need of a coat-brush. And," he added as an afterthought, "I haven't any mask."

"Ah," Tora laughed. "So what if it's a bit lacking in luster? So what if you have no disguise? You still look a real gentleman, as you should."

He shrugged again, hiding a grin behind one carefully placed hand. He made it look as though he were surreptitiously itching his nose.

"You look quite beautiful," he said nonchalantly, attempting to be distant, though he was not careful enough to hide the soft blush in his voice.

Tora grinned.

"Your arm, _monsieur_?" she asked giddily. She didn't care who saw. She didn't even care if Erik saw. Let him see. Let him be jealous, if that was what it took. She wanted him to notice her—he _should_ notice her, and perhaps meant to, or else why would he have gone to the trouble of buying her these lovely, exorbitantly indulgent trappings?

And after all, he expected to see her with some dandy on her arm, didn't he? That's what he had said in that other note, hadn't he? She had a sneaking suspicion that he had been hoping she would actually appear alone; wouldn't he be shocked if he saw her with Patrick! He might even think that his note had been the _cause_ of her appearance with a dashing young man on her arm, and _then_ wouldn't he feel foolish!

She glanced sideways at her former would-be paramour, and felt supremely safe, all of a sudden.

There welled up in her a swell of warmth and gratitude for nearly all he had done, and all he now did. She could not have gone this particular distance alone, from the dormitories to the large, foreboding ballroom.

Though she had never bequeathed her surrogate _frere_ with the knowledge of even the name or existence of Erik, or any detail about this whole drawn-out affair, she was bolstered profusely by his company, his closeness. He could not have known that she needed him for these long two hours. He didn't have to. His mere existence by her side, the knowledge that his presence was tangibly caring, was enough.

Had she entered that massive ballroom by herself, she would have felt lost. She would have milled about, seeking she knew not what, and eleven would have crept up slowly, like an agonizing torture device which slowly drew the blood from one's veins…drop by drop. She would have been frightened, too, frightened to face that booming hour, that possible death-knell on her soul.

Now her friend was by her side, comforting her by his very presence, until that fateful hour when she would have to face her fears and her desires on her own.

He was a warm shoulder, an unconditional support. He was everything at that moment.

"I am glad," she whispered confidentially, "that you are my escort, _monsieur._ I am glad that you are here with me."

And she kissed him on the cheek.

* * *

He had waited, until it was half-past nine and the Bal had already begun to stagnate a little; the novelty of the masqued dance had worn off just enough so that no one was yet bored enough to stop dancing and mill about for refreshments and small talk, but still enough so that his appearance would liven things up considerably. 

Indeed, talk slowed audibly when his foreboding form was spotted at last. There was a collective hush as he swept by a few bored young couples, and to the audience below, he seemingly melted into existence magnificently at the very top of the stairs.

He allowed himself a ghost of a smile.

Perfect.

He began his walk, slow, deliberate, almost dreadful in its grandly somber, morbid way.

The back of his cloak told the masses that he was not to be touched—Red Death was a plague, a scourge, and not a soul there doubted who he was meant to be portraying. But just in case, his cloak told them all.

"_I am Red Death—Touch me not!"_

Erik found himself glancing from left to right, scanning the floor for the one he sought. Simply to gaze upon her would be enough.

Christine had all but vanished from his thoughts. She was a mere tickle at the back of his brain, no more garnering his full attention than a tiny ant scuttling across the floor might have. His thoughts were with another now.

So distracted was he by this search for a blood-red needle in a haystack of color that some drunken fool, daring to test the cloak's threat, managed to reach out without Erik's immediate knowledge and grasp the edge of his elegantly embroidered sleeve.

Distraction vanished at once.

Erik reacted with the speed of lightning. Everyone who watched was utterly astounded at the superhuman quickness with which he grasped the young man's wrist with his bony fingers, so quickly that nobody even saw when he moved; all they saw was the young man grabbing the vermilion sleeve, and then, suddenly, Red Death's fingers were clamping the unfortunate's wrist in a skeletal grip, so horrible, so deathly cold, that the poor fool gave a strangled cry.

Erik grinned at him.

It was not a friendly grin; rather, it was his most horrible, shocking, malevolent grin, reserved especially for the weak and the foolish.

To the young man, it was as though the devil himself were smiling at him, as if to say, _It won't be long before you're with _me

Gasping for air, the young man slumped down on the floor, his wrist still held in the chill of Erik's vice-like grip, and then, without warning, Erik grimaced and tossed the wrist back into the possession of the owner.

_You aren't worth my time,_ he thought coldly._ I have much larger fish to catch._

Suddenly, without warning, he saw her.

His entire body froze as if chilled by a sorcerer's wand; his eyes went as wide as saucers.

He had not even been actively searching with his eyes; and perhaps it was this absence of concentration which in fact allowed his yellow orbs to find her in the massive crowd.

The guests had parted for a moment, no one wanting to suffer the young man's fate, and Erik saw a flash of blood-red, a glimmer of beautiful chestnut hair.

And then her pale face appeared, and disappeared again.

His heart constricted in his chest, seeming to leap up into his throat and choke all his breath away, panic gripping him like an iron band.

He breathed slowly, attempting to calm himself, for he had no wish to ruin his spectral majesty in front of the terrified guests.

_No matter,_ he thought. _There is time, and then you will speak to her. You can wait until then. Think of other matters now._

Turning his attention reluctantly to the rest of the crowd, he was suddenly struck with a bold, dreadful notion—something that would really frighten the masses and allow him a little harmless fun, and he grinned again, making many step back even farther.

He stretched out his arms in mock supplication. "Will no one dance with me?" he called out, making his voice as ominous as possible, dry and rattling. People stepped back even farther.

He smiled again. "No young lady wishes to feel the icy grip of death?" he asked smugly.

"Aside from your absolutely ghastly appearance, sir," called out a middle-aged noble with graying sideburns in a jovial fashion, "no young lady in her right mind would dare to ignore the message on the back of your cloak, especially after..."

"Ah," said Erik, grinning again. "Of course."

He did not think very much of the fact that Tora might hear him. The thought never even fully entered his mind.

But suddenly, a voice drifted out from deep within the masses of people.

Erik's presence of mind was the only thing that kept him from leaping backwards as if charged with an electric shock.

This was not happening. Time and space would not allow it.

But it _was _happening.

"I will dance with him," said the apparition, the specter from the past.

The crowd murmured, mingled with a few gasps, and they parted to reveal…

Erik thought he might faint. This was utterly preposterous.

"Dear God," he said aloud, without meaning to, and somebody laughed.

He saw the movement down her throat; she was swallowing, hard.

Holding onto her arm with a clenched hand, with a frozen look on his face, was that little Irish gentleman-turned-sweeper. There was a kind of blind possessiveness in his manner, a sort of subtle ardence when he raked Tora with his eyes.

Here it should be noted that Erik had indeed noticed the unfortunate boy more often than once in the past, had very much garnered that there was some especial acquaintance between he and Tora, and had therefore heartily disliked him. However, there had been no real evidence to support that they were…involved in any way, and so Erik had never hated him.

He hated him now. He hated that detestable little mick so much that he thought his intestines might implode.

Tora stepped forward.

Patrick grabbed her arm more tightly and whispered something frantically in her ear.

She patted his arm nervously, and muttered something too low for anyone but her escort to hear. She handed him her mask, murmuring.

The expression on the boy's face was unfathomable. He stared at her as though she had wheat growing out of her ears. His fingers curled around the handle of her facial disguise, and he glanced back at Erik again.

Wordlessly, his grip on her arm released, and Tora stumbled a bit.

Erik ceased staring at the boy and became aware, as Tora came closer (seeming to glide across the floor with her skirts swishing just a bit) that her hands were shaking. Her eyes were wide, almost unseeing.

She came close enough so that he could smell her, the light dash of some unidentifiable perfume, the glorious scent of her hair.

She seemed to be sleepwalking. She did not look at him, but rather at his lapels.

He was too shocked by her very proximity to care.

He felt her cool, soft little hand slip into his, sliding a little with a sheen of sweat, while the other rested gingerly upon his arm. He thought he might faint again, so dizzy was he by her intoxicating closeness, her voluntary touch of skin upon skin.

His nerves were shaken so badly that he thought blandly, for a moment, that he should have worn gloves in order to save himself these roaringly erotic sensations of his bare hand upon her own. It was blasphemy, this…but even more blasphemous were the racing, disjointed images of her writhing, naked form beneath him on a bed of satin… Oh, God, he _would _not think of that.

"Dance," she whispered, more of a strangled gasp than anything, and suddenly, the guests, broken out of their astonished gazing, realized that the music had begun again, and began to pair off with their respective partners.

Patrick stood alone. He seemed to have been frozen in place, simply staring, and staring, and staring.

Erik ignored him. He felt a moment of savage glee that Tora paid no further attention to the boy.

Music pulsed throughout his body; unintentionally, his feet began to move. It was an unfamiliar rhythm, but his feet found it easily, falling into place like the clicking of a metronome. This was all that social dancing was, he thought with a surge of relief; it was simply humans acting like fingers on piano keys, moving to the steady, pulsing beat of a thankless metronome.

She was so close; he could barely believe that she was here, practically in his arms, dancing with Red Death, of all the incredulous believe-it-or-nots.

"I," she said, a squeezed whimper which died in her throat. "I…"

Still she would not look at him.

It was not out of fear of his unmasked appearance, he realized suddenly; it was simply that she could not, would not meet his eyes.

The thought was not his own. It had scraped against his mind with a familiar, long-absent pull which he recognized instantly.

He felt a bit weak.

"Let's not speak," she whispered suddenly, desperately. "You're not you, anyway, and I'm not really me…"

Erik laughed, suddenly, and she looked up at him for a brief, glorious moment, her eyes shining with some inexplicable emotion that filled him up, he knew not why, with a split second of wonderful joy.

Abruptly it was gone, and her eyes darkened, filling with panic, and then they were on his lapels again.

"No, we aren't really us, are we?" he whispered. "We're not Tora and Erik; we're simply Red Death and his lady."

He chuckled a bit. "You did notice that my costume is the same color as yours, did you not?"

Tora shuddered, making some unintelligible noise in the back of her throat.

"You…" he stopped. He had been about to say _You look radiant, _or _You look ravishing,_ but somehow he felt instinctively that this was not the time. Red Death would not say _You look ravishing_, and so he, Erik, could not.

"I…I what?" she murmured.

"You…that is…It's best kept for later," he managed.

Her mouth opened, and closed again. There was silence for exactly ten seconds, and then she spoke again, suddenly.

"Erik" was the only thing that emptied from her lips, one word; there was something almost like longing, or pleading in her voice.

He jumped a little, falling out of step, and they stumbled, and stopped.

She glanced a little higher, still not meeting his eyes, going about as far as his chin.

"Start dancing again," she said frantically. "I can't say it…when…"

Wordlessly, he began moving them around the floor again, finding the time-beat with his feet, and he became aware that she was breathing very heavily.

"What was it you wanted to say?" he murmured nervously, and he thought he saw her shiver just a bit when his breath reached her ear.

"I…" her voice was languorous, slow. "I…like dancing with you. _Monsieur_," she added carefully, apparently attempting to make her remark a bit more distant than it had originally been meant.

Erik closed his eyes, just for a moment.

"You're not saying this," he whispered. "You're not saying these things to me. You're likely not even real, did you know that, Tora?"

She shivered again. "Erik," she whispered, and pressed just a little closer to him, not seeming to care about distance anymore. "Oh, Erik…" Her forehead nearly touched his chest, and her breath warmed his shirt. He thought he might have heard her murmur, "Poor Erik," too, but of that he was unsure, and preferred to keep it that way.

Erik swallowed, feeling unbalanced, dizzy. "I thought," he gulped lamely, "that we were merely Red Death and his lady—"

"Stow it," she said, and such an impertinent remark so shocked him that he fell silent for the next five minutes of awkward silence, as they moved around and around the marbled floor, which glimmered innocently in the gaslights as a result of heavy polish and the scuff-marks of a thousand shoes.

* * *

Patrick held a drink in his stiff hand, not caring that he was jostled continuously by the moving masses; he simply stared into space. 

_That_ was her friend? She _knew _that man?

He couldn't quite believe it. But he had to, didn't he?

Suddenly a thought came to him, an awful thought, and his breath nearly caught in his chest.

He had had the oddest inklings, now and again, from meaningless hints that she had dropped unknowingly in both her mannerisms and speech, that Tora somehow knew the Opera Ghost. These little hints were merely signposts and further proofs of something that she had unintentionally blurted out, once, when Patrick was commenting on the absurdity of the superstitions abounding about the Opera House concerning a nonexistent Phantom.

"He's _not _a Ghost," she had said sullenly. "He's a man. And a very fallible, ridiculous one at that…"

Then her eyes had gone wide, and she had fallen silent, refusing to explain her remark when Patrick questioned her repeatedly about what on earth she had meant by that.

He had heard the descriptions circulated about the appearance of the Ghost, descriptions that had reportedly been begun by a now-dead stagehand, Joseph Buquet. Red Death looked precisely as the Opera Ghost had been described.

Patrick felt cold. _Was_ it possible that they were one and the same?

And if so, who was this man, who obviously got his fun out of putting on a grotesque mask and scaring the girls in the Opera, and extorting the managers, and now frightening the wits out of the guests at the Bal?

No doubt he was very handsome behind that hideous piece of frippery, he thought sullenly. No wonder Tora gravitated toward him.

His glass creaked under his grip, cracking a little.

Their costumes matched, he realized with a sudden jolt. Red Death and Tora. They matched! The color was almost the exact shade!

He suddenly felt like a complete dunce. He'd been played for a fool, and he'd been too blind to notice a single thing.

Of course. She had been planning to meet that man the entire time; she had even coordinated her costume with his. She had only consented to be escorted by Patrick because her lover wanted to make a grand, frightening appearance—which would of course have been ruined had he entered the room with a beautiful young lady on his arm.

Patrick gritted his teeth. "She's insufferable," he moaned, clutching his face with one hand. "Why do I love her? Why?"

"I's probabbly," slurred a drunken gentleman next to him, grabbing Patrick's shoulder to steady himself, "becaush she'sh jusht _sho_ good in the boudoir…you can't ge' enuff of 'er, that's what."

Patrick shrugged him off irritably, and then realized that he had actually understood what the man said.

"So someone actually _does_ speak English in this god-forsaken opulence," he muttered. "Pity you're not more sober, or we might get along just fine, sir."

He stalked off, out of the ballroom, past the laughing guests, planning to sit by himself in a corner and ruminate about the inexpressible woes of life.

"Give me that," he snapped, grabbing a half-filled wine bottle out of the hand of a particularly inebriated soul lolling about half-prostrate on the floor. "You're already drunk, you swine."

Tilting his head back, he took a long swig, and sighed.

* * *

Tora noticed, with a flash of unease, that Erik's already ginger handling of her fingers was beginning to slacken. 

"You're bored with me," she said impulsively, nervously.

"Bored with you, indeed," said Erik. "Any man would have to be mad to be…"

He broke off, as if he had already said too much.

"I should go," he said suddenly. He stopped moving, and drew back a little, letting her hand and arm slide from his own. His voice turned cold. "There's still an hour or so before our little appointment, and I shall see you then…"

"No," she pled abruptly, her hand shooting out almost as quickly as his had done previously, grasping his sleeve as tightly as she could.

"It will rip if you attempt to flee from me," she said, when he looked at her slowly without moving another muscle, and she hurriedly lowered her gaze to the sleeve itself. "I daresay that would make you a bit peeved, wouldn't it?"

Ponderously, torturously, he turned his entire body to face her. His stance was wary yet, however, and she felt his muscles tighten slightly beneath the sleeve.

"What do you want?" he asked curiously. There was a note of caution in his voice, something almost menacing and, at the same time, strangely gentle.

She let her hand drop.

_I want you._

God, no. Those words would not come, even if she had willed them to.

"Come with me," she said suddenly, grabbing his arm and pulling him into the hall.

He stiffened all at once when they had gotten clear of the ballroom, and refused to move further.

"Where are we going?" he asked calmly, almost ominously.

Tora turned her back to him, staring into empty hallspace and dimly lit gaslights. "I thought," she said slowly, though her breath was beginning to come in gasps, "I thought…we might go…to our appointment…a little early."

He was stone behind her, silent and cold.

"Since we're already here," she said lamely. "Since we're already in each other's…c…company."

She thought she heard him chuckle, ever so lightly. It was too loud in the adjoining rooms and hallways full of revelers to be entirely sure.

"Indeed," he said silkily, and then she heard a rustle. "Well. Shall we then, my dear?"

Tora glanced back and saw his hand held out to her, glimmering a little in the dim light. The protruding phalange-bones were neatly swaddled in a deathly pale translucence, skin that looked almost as though it might rip apart if she touched it. His whole hand, she noticed suddenly, was roped with visible, light-blue veins.

She took it, briefly closing her eyes as she felt his slender fingers close around her own. Such a strong grip he had, but such a gentle touch, as if he were afraid her hands were made of glass.

Her eyes opened, wandered up, and then she realized that he had put on his mask while she was not looking. _That explains the rustle_, she thought miserably.

"You don't have to…" Tora began, but he only grasped her hand a little tighter and began leading her through the hall, up the stairs.

_You don't have to…you don't have to wear it if you don't want to._

"Ah," he said, a bit sadly, "but I'm afraid I do. Personal comfort, my dear. Having a private conversation is a bit different than a public one, and this," he gestured dismissively to his thin face-shell, "simply makes me feel more at ease with myself."

"I understand," she said thinly, and fell silent as they made their way up to the boxes.

He was so tall, so long. Tora didn't think she could fathom where he began and where he ended if she let her eyes go out of focus for even a moment.


	34. The Kiss That Almost Was

**A/N: Happy Belated Second Birthday, Opera Wench!**

**Goodness, I was only eighteen when I began this, and now I'm twenty, married, and getting ready to have my first child. Where on earth has the time flown?**

**At any rate, about a third of this chapter, if you can believe it, was originally included in the last chapter, which ergo was becoming so disproportionately long that I ended up just cutting it and using it for this chapter. I have been including lots of bloggish things about it in the forum, so if you're ever wondering what's going on with the writing process, go on and check it out.**

**This chapter was exceedingly hard to write, incidentally--mostly because the writing of certain scenes, thoughts, and dialogue was more than a little awkward and, I still believe, came out a bit clunky even with revision. I was tempted to just get it all over with, which is why this chapter originally ended a bit more romantically, but I decided at the last minute that it would be creative suicide. The writing of subsequent chapters would have suffered for it, I think, and I've got some spiffing ideas for later chapters, so don't be too disappointed at the ending of this one. There is a reasonable bit of satisfaction, anyway, and that should please you fair to middling. :) **

**

* * *

**

Patrick lounged on the floor, one knee drawn up and the other leg sprawled lazily out.

As he leaned back and took another swig, his bleary eyes spotted a girl whom he had seen in Tora's company many a time.

What was her name? Confound it…

"Suzie?" he slurred. "No…Suzella? Suzanne?"

Ah.

"Suzette!" he cried triumphantly, a bit louder than he'd meant, and she turned her head quickly.

"You," she said, a bit disconcertedly, noting his slow descent into inebriety. "Why isn't Tora with you?"

She was speaking in French, of course.

Patrick laughed, and coughed a bit. "Tora?" he asked drunkenly. It had been the only thing he could pick out of her words besides the French for _you_. "Tora's with the _Opera Ghost_. How y' say…Fahn-tome deel Op-ra?"

His pronunciation was horrible, but Suzette understood at once.

She went a little white.

"Where?" she asked in French, shaking him. "_Where?"_

"I shtill can't underrshtaaaandd yooouuu," sang Patrick, giggling a little. He suddenly began singing in Gaelic, some old song his parents had taught him when he was young.

Suzette let go of him disdainfully, glancing about in a bit of a panic.

Then she looked at Patrick thoughtfully, almost with a bit of pity.

"I'd better get you cleaned up," she said. "Tora wouldn't like to see you like this, if she comes back alive…"

An image flashed in her mind unbidden, of Tora hanging by a noose from a rafter, her neck frozen in an unnatural bent.

She shuddered. "What can I do?" she whispered. "If she's in danger, I must go, but what if she isn't? She'd never forgive me if…"

She helped Patrick to his feet. "I'll get you tidied and off to your bed," she said, ignoring his drunken Gaelic caterwauling, which to her ear was simply made-up gibberish, "and then I'll see about Tora. Come on…up you go…"

They stumbled down the hall together, Patrick leaning against her and weeping a bit before he began laughing and singing again.

"It…will…be…" grunted Suzette, struggling to hold his weight with her shoulders, "a…very…long…night."

* * *

His long, pale fingers swept back the curtain with an almost irritable flourish. 

Tora could not take her eyes off his hands. She had the strange, fleeting impulse to grab them both and kiss them, but it quickly passed.

His grip was so cold. She wondered vaguely if his hands were _ever_ warm. Somehow she thought that even a few minutes of holding them over a blazing fire would not be enough to thaw their icy chill.

Without warning, he let go of her hand, and she flexed her fingers, feeling them tingle in the aftermath.

He walked with springy grace to the edge of the box, where he quickly scanned below and around for any unwanted guests in the rest of the theater.

There was a curtain drawn in one box across the expanse, she noted, seeing that he had noticed it too, and she suddenly heard faint sounds coming from behind it, almost rhythmic.

Her cheeks flamed. She hoped to heaven that Erik had not noticed _that_, and if he had, (she quickly put her own fairly cold hands to her burning cheeks to cool them) she desperately hoped that he would not notice that _she_ had noticed.

She saw his back stiffen a little, his gaze still fixed upon that box, and he did not turn around to face her for a full minute.

Tora was so embarrassed that she thought she might simply melt away into the carpet. She wished that she would, in fact.

When he finally turned back around, she had managed sufficient control to compose her face in a more or less expressionless manner, and looked at him as nonchalantly as she could.

He blinked at her, regarding her coolly, and sat down in one fluid movement in a chair a few feet in front of her, crossing his arms and legs in a manner of complete indifference and contemplation.

He seemed to be studying her.

Tora felt herself grow warm again. She hoped that the dim light in the box did not permit him to see her blush.

She leaned back a bit, allowing herself the same type of indifferent study, valiantly attempting not to look at his legs.

His mouth twitched. She noticed with a jolt that it was _that_ mask, the one that showed his mouth, and a sudden thought came to her which she swatted away irritably.

She cleared her throat.

He cleared his right back, almost as though he were mocking her.

She was sure she saw a faint ghost of smile flit across those paper-thin lips.

Tora nearly stood up and left, but she froze herself in place.

"Well," she said. She waited.

He pursed his lips a little, apparently thinking. "Well," he said, sounding rather like a myna bird.

Tora gritted her teeth. "If you only came here to mock me," she said between clenched molars, "you might as well forego my company entirely. I won't stand for it."

He shrugged, another fluid, slow movement. She was hard-pressed not to sigh.

"You came here," he said softly, his voice like a slightly menacing caress, and she shivered, "to speak with me, did you not?"

Tora sat immovable in her chair. "You first," she said brusquely, swirling emotions making her a bit rude.

Erik laughed. "You utterly astound me," he said, wiping his mouth a little. "I always knew you had a bit of puckishness inside of you, but this is really getting to be too much."

Tora looked away. "Are you going to talk to me about Christine," she asked, "or shall I do it for you?"

The laugh immediately vanished from his lips, and his whole manner stiffened and became dark.

He leaned forward a little, and Tora, seeing him out of the corner of her eye, felt a miasmic shiver run up her spine.

"Christine," he said softly. He just as well might have said, "piano," or "violin." There was a definite note of reverence in his voice, but it was not the blind worship Tora was expecting. It was almost as though Christine were an inanimate object of which he was rather fond.

She turned back to face him, rather more quickly than she'd intended.

"Do you love her?" she asked, trying her best to be nonchalant.

Erik sat back in his chair.

"Do I love her," he repeated, breathing softly through his teeth. "Ah, yes, do I love her? That, my little bird, is a question I have asked myself many times. I think I am prepared to answer it aloud, now."

Tora's body was stiff, unmoving. She did not know what to expect in his answer. She only knew what she wanted him to say.

"I…do not," he said softly, a note of finality in his voice. "At the very least, not in the way in which I originally thought myself entrenched."

Tora's body went limp as though cut from strings. She panted a little, hoping he didn't hear.

"I'm rather ashamed of myself, actually," he said. "The poor child never deserved any of what she was forced to endure down in the dark. But she was so kind! I think she might have been getting used to me—she looked at my unmasked face without flinching so many times…"

Tora felt a little sick with her own shame.

"She never told me that she loved me," he said. "She merely tried to make me placated. I do think the child was a bit afraid of me."

Tora held her face in her hands.

"She was so ashamed of it, Erik," she said suddenly, and Erik's eyes fastened on her all at once, like blazing magnets.

"What's that you say?" he asked. It was surprised, but it was slow, burning.

"She was ashamed," said Tora, "that she could not love you. She told me so."

Erik's hands gripped his knees. He felt his fingers digging into his own flesh, and the pain of it made him feel a bit more alive.

"I'd no idea," he said in an unfathomable tone of voice, "that the two of you were such intimate friends."

Tora laughed a little, a bark. "We aren't," she said. "She forced me to hear her out, once she found out by accident that I knew who you were. She was so desperate to have someone listen to her, especially, she thought, someone who might understand her and not think her mad."

Erik sighed. "And you," he said a little nervously. "What did you tell her?"

"Not very much," said Tora blandly. "Bare-boned details. And she knows that I…"

She cut herself off quickly, her eyes squeezing shut, her hand covering her mouth.

Erik shifted in his seat. "What does she know, little bird?" he asked conversationally, with a hint of a knife digging into her ribs.

"Nothing," said Tora. "Absolutely nothing. At least, nothing that you need to know at this very moment."

Erik's lips pinched. "Why did you want to know if I loved her?" he asked with soft malevolence. "So that you could report back and put the child's mind at ease?"

Tora shrugged. "I daresay she'll want to know, but I have no intention of telling her unless she corners me in the hall tomorrow. It wasn't why I asked."

"Then what was it that made you feel like picking at my brain?" queried Erik.

Tora shook her head.

"I have a question of my own," said Erik, his countenance darkening.

She looked up. "And what would that be?" she asked coolly.

"You…and that boy," said Erik, attempting to be as fatherly as possible, trying with all his might to wipe away any trace of a jealous would-be lover. "What…"

Tora stared at him. A smile began on her face, spread to a grin, and then she began to laugh.

Erik stared at her.

She laughed so hard she doubled over, nearly falling from her chair. "Patrick!" she gasped. "Oh…oh…I was right! You _are_ jealous!" She snorted a little in her mirth, covering her mouth in embarrassment, but it only ended up making her laugh a bit harder.

Erik felt hot and cold at intervals. It was not possible for he, of all people, to be so transparent. It simply was not.

He cleared his throat.

Tora looked up, endorphins causing all her inhibitions to fade just a little. "I rather feel like throwing myself into your arms," she said rapturously, and Erik shrank backwards into his chair, his fingers gripping the armrests until his hands were nearly bloodless.

"But I won't," she said airily, and he relaxed, not sure whether to be relieved or disappointed.

"Ha," she said then, and sat upright in her chair. "Patrick, indeed. If you had any sense, Erik, you'd _know_ that I'd no more think of him in such a way than I would a broom handle."

Erik felt as though his ribs were cracking in an effort to contain his embarrassment.

"I see," he said slowly, attempting to gather his thoughts. "And as for…"

He was about to say _And as for me? _but the words would not leave his mouth.

Tora wasn't fooled. She sat up straight, sudden confidence emanating from her every fiber. "And as for who?" she asked airily. "You? Is that what you were going to inquire?"

Erik twitched, stiffened. "You're suffocating me," he growled, standing up, shaking himself as if to ward off dust.

Tora's head flung back to look at him. "So tall," she whispered, gazing at him from under her eyelashes. "So dark, so mysterious. Am I the only one who loves you for it?" Her hand fluttered to her mouth, but it was too late.

Erik turned away, and then suddenly stiffened again, feeling as though he were a block of ice. He closed his eyes, briefly, and opened them again.

"Tora," he said, breathing laboriously with impossibility. "You don't love _me_."

He could hear her breathing behind him, heavily, frightened. "That's just the trouble," she said in a very small voice. "I...I think I may."

Erik turned to face her, his eyes burning with misery. "Tell me you mean it," he begged suddenly. "Or dash the lie to pieces where it stands, and I won't think any less of you for it."

Tears were trickling from her eyes, small, slow rivulets which wound themselves in narrow shimmers down the slope of her cheek. One, two.

She shivered. _I do not know what to do._

"We…" she whispered. "We could talk more easily if we were…downstairs."

"Downstairs?" he asked incredulously. "Whyever would it be easier down there, where there are so many…"

"I mean," she gulped. "_Down._ Er…ehm…five…floors…down."

He didn't seem to move for a long moment.

"You mean six," he said calmly. "The first cellar is below the first floor, and we are on the second floor. Therefore, it is six."

Tora gulped. "Y…y…yes," she said. "I wasn't thinking."

Erik ran his fingers through his hair—what little he had—and she sighed. She loved the way he moved his hand over the top of his skull, so gracefully, so fluidly.

"Why," he asked softly, carefully, "would you want to be entombed in my abode when here, you are free to leave at any time, without having to navigate in the dark?"

"It's been so long since I've seen your house," she said fitfully. "Besides, I think we might be more comfortable if we were someplace more familiar. We've never talked up _here_ before."

Erik shrugged, shaking his head a bit. "Comfortable," he said, and shivered a bit. "I'm not sure if it would be entirely wise to be too…"

He looked at her sharply, and fell silent. "Forgive me," he said oddly. "I sometimes speak my mind aloud, without thinking…"

Tora stood up. "If you'd rather we continued later," she said quietly, "you could…come and fetch me."

Erik gave a barking, short laugh. "There are no revolving mirrors in the dormitories, my dear," he said artfully. "Christine has been giving you romantic ideas of being kidnapped."

Tora blushed scarlet. "Boil your head," she snapped without thinking. "I…_oh!_"

She stood up abruptly and turned away, arms folded.

"Insufferable," she muttered darkly, seemingly to nobody in particular. "Utterly in_sufferable_."

Erik shifted in his seat, feeling uncomfortable and not having the slightest idea of what to say next.

"The worst part," she said resignedly, "is that I would rather love to be kidnapped. At least if it was by you. To be simply whisked away from a dressing room by the Opera Ghost…it _is_ rather romant…"

She broke off, looked back at him. "My life has been a bit mundane," she said by way of explanation. "You never kidnapped _me._ Why?"

Erik leaned back in his chair, feeling as though he were on the rack. "I never needed to," he stammered. "You already knew me for who I was, and I…"

"So you preyed upon her fancies, and then stole her away," Tora said. "That was rather rude of you, Erik."

"I thought you just said it was rom…" he began, now utterly confused.

"Not when you did it in _that_ way," she said, rolling her eyes.

"Confound it, girl!" he roared, standing upright, suddenly feeling as though he had been pushed the brink of self-control.

Tora shrank back a little, but there was an odd, frightened little smile on her face.

"When will you cease playing games with me?" he demanded furiously, coming closer, so that she could see the pulsing veins in his neck. "I am…not a very patient man, you know," he said, a little less loudly, but his eyes still burned in the dim light of the box. "I don't enjoy being teased."

Tora swallowed, blinking a little. "I wasn't attempting to tease you," she said sullenly. "I was being matter-of-fact."

Erik's breath came hard and fast. "You infuriate me," he said. "You are the most impudent, inexplicable little baggage…"

Tora's eyes flashed. "_Baggage_," she spat. "You! Shall I tell you what I think of you?"

He shrank back, feeling frightfully amused all of a sudden.

"Forgive me," he said between his teeth, attempting to recover his gentlemanliness while it was still possible. "I spoke a bit out of turn."

Tora growled deep in her throat and turned around again, her hair swirling so that it very nearly brushed his lapels. He hadn't realized he was so close.

She felt warm, even from where he was standing. He leaned just a little bit, inhaling her scent ever so slightly. It was not enough. He wanted to bury his face in her hair, but he didn't dare do something so utterly forward as that.

Instead, he reached out a trembling finger and slid it under one lock, twirling it around a little so that it slid across his skin with all its silken softness.

She shivered, but didn't move. It seemed to him that she was breathing a little faster.

Then, shaking uncontrollably, he leaned forward and dared, _dared_ to actually _kiss_ the lock of hair, praying that he wouldn't be struck by lightning for such blasphemy.

She stiffened, then relaxed.

The warmth of her skin radiated upon his exposed lips, and he had the most indecent urge then to put his lips upon her smooth, graceful neck, but stifled it at once.

"Erik," she whispered, almost warningly, but she turned her face just a little, and he could see her lips part and curve upward ever so slightly.

It seemed he had never been so utterly intoxicated before, so utterly convinced that were he to die at this very moment, it wouldn't really matter.

She sighed. Erik unwound his finger from her hair and stood upright, breathing heavily.

"Forgive me," he murmured again. "I assume too much."

She laughed shortly. "Silly Erik," she said softly. "I really do think…" She broke off, shaking her head.

"This was all a dreadful mistake," he said. "I never should have agreed to this."

"Don't be so dramatic, Erik," she snapped. "This is utterly ridiculous. I'd kiss you, you know, if I wasn't so afraid of your reaction."

"You'd never," he scoffed, although his insides trembled.

"I would," she said defiantly.

He was tempted to say _Prove it,_ but he was far too frightened that she might actually comply. What on earth was he to do then?

She turned around, facing him, and he stepped back a little. "Don't," he said impulsively. "I wouldn't…I don't…"

"You what?" she asked, one eyebrow raised, taking one step toward him.

"I…" he stammered, stumbling over a chair as he backed away. "…Erik...wouldn't know...what to do...with his...my...hands."

He cursed himself for being so childish, and his back went up against the hollow pillar.

_Ah, salvation._

He got ready to press the hidden spring, in case she were to try anything rash.

Tora stopped a few feet away from him. "I hate to sound indecent," she said blithely, "but you could hold my waist. Or shoulders."

Erik could feel droplets of sweat running down into the corners of his mask, and his fingers fumbled behind him, but found nothing.

_Curse it…where is the damnable spring?_

"Perhaps you could entwine your fingers in my hair," she said suggestively, smirking, and he could feel himself turn a bit red.

"Tread lightly, Tora," he hissed. "You're liable to make me angry, and when Erik is angry…"

"What?" she asked flippantly. "You'll string me up by my tresses? I'm sorry," she said quickly, when she saw him take a rather menacing stance. "I don't mean to be so difficult."

Erik's breathing slowed a little. "Curse you," he muttered, reaching a hand out so that it almost touched her cheek. The fingers hovered, only millimeters away. "Beautiful women are my weakness, it seems."

Tora's face nearly matched her dress. She lowered her eyes, at a loss of what to say.

The tip of one pale finger brushed her cheek, light as butterfly wings, traveling lightly along her jawline.

"Such a lovely face you have," he said, sensing that rather than stripping him of control, this gave him some measure of power over her. "I'd compare you to a Botticelli angel, but you're far too seductive for that."

Tora turned her face away. "Christine is the Botticelli angel," she said. "Not I."

"Yes," he said. "And I much prefer y…"

He bit his tongue. Tora glanced at him. "You're embarrassing me, Erik."

"Is praise so humiliating?" he asked sullenly.

"Sometimes," she said.

"I suppose," he said cautiously, "coming from another, it would be welcomed rather than spurned."

Tora rolled her eyes. "You think far too little of yourself, Erik. You're being melodramatic again."

"Don't toy with me," he snapped, drawing his hand away. "Would you not rather these praises came from a more handsome man?"

"No," she said, and then blushed again. "It's just so…unexpected. From you."

"Why?" he asked softly, in surprise. "Do you think me blind, or stupid?"

"Don't talk nonsense," she said, fiddling with a strand of her hair. "It's only that…Christine is much more beautiful than I, and I thought…"

Erik barked a laugh. "I've come to realize," he said, "that her beauty is ethereal. Breathtaking, yes, but it doesn't last, or wouldn't if she was forced into misery. The child is much better off without someone like me shadowing her steps…"

Tora gazed beyond him, at an elegantly upholstered chair. "She obviously doesn't frighten you as much as I do," she said in a low voice. "You would accept a kiss from _her,_ no doubt."

Erik's eyes flashed. "Tora, do you really wish to kiss Erik, or are you simply attempting to drive him mad?" he snapped, detaching himself from the sentence in his way. "As long as I have lived, no woman who knows my true appearance has ever expressed the wish to put her lips to mine, or to touch me any more than absolutely necessary. You will forgive me if I have trouble accepting your sincerity—"

Tora reached up suddenly and grabbed both sides of his mask-covered face, pulling him so that their mouths were only inches apart. They stared at each other, unmoving.

"Do you believe me now?" she whispered, and Erik shuddered. "Perhaps," he murmured. Their breaths mingled. His was stale, dry, and hers was still carrying the scent of the fruit she had eaten a few hours before.

She leaned her forehead against his, feeling the mask scrape a little against her skin, and closed her eyes, breathing softly. "Might we start over?" she whispered. "Everything was so much more intriguing when I was only seventeen."

"You're not a child anymore," he said, absently twirling a strand of her hair around his finger again. "And one can never turn the hands of time."

"Still," she said. "I have to wonder what might have happened had I never gone to America. This Christine business might never have happened…"

"One mustn't dwell on things like that," he said abruptly. "It does no good. This is, as you may know, from personal experience."

"Erik, you must tell me about your past," she said. "I know next to nothing about you, you know."

"Perhaps some night when you and I are sitting comfortably beside a warm fire with some wine to dull our senses, Erik might tell you," he said rather seriously. "It isn't happy, by any stretch of the imagination, but it is rather colorful."

Tora opened her eyes. "A promise?"

"That depends," he said. "You can never be too trusting of my word. Whether or not I keep it hangs upon its importance."

"Ah," she said. "And how important is…"

"Because it is you," he said, "I will keep this promise, I believe. Someday."

Tora leaned away from him, and he straightened. "Thank you," he said. "My neck was beginning to develop a cramp."

She raised an eyebrow, and took her hands away from his face. "No kiss, then?" she asked rather oddly.

"Forgive me, my dear," he said, giving a small cough and toying with his cravat, "but all this talk of kisses makes me rather nervous."

"Fine, then," she said coolly, and held out her hand. "Kiss that, if you dare."

Erik blinked. "With pleasure," he said calmly, and took her hand lightly in his own. She could, despite his facade of confidence, feel his fingers trembling a little as he raised her knuckles to his lips.

The paper-thin skin of his mouth brushed lightly across the back of her hand, cool and dry. Tora could feel his teeth through his lips, pressed against the flesh.

"How do you speak so well?" she asked suddenly, shivering a bit. "And sing?"

Erik raised his head from her hand, looking at her abruptly. "What on earth do you mean?" he queried darkly.

Tora blushed. "It's only…you see...your mouth. Your…"

"Ah," he said, and dropped her hand, his manner suddenly sullen. "It took years, you know, to develop a method of speech that would allow me to sound like a normal man. I had a bit of an impediment when I was young, actually…I couldn't quite form my 'm's properly, among other things."

"Forgive me," she said. "I'm impulsive, and far too curious."

"It doesn't matter," he said. "Your curiosity can't get you into too much more trouble with _me_, at any rate. You've already borne the fruit of the most dangerous of curiosities as far as I am concerned."

Tora blushed, remembering her foolish moment of recklessness when she had unthinkingly swept the mask from his face. It seemed so unutterably long ago, now. "How many people," she asked suddenly, "_have_ seen your...your face?"

His manner darkened still further. "Too many," he said, and shrugged his vermilion cape irritably. "I should be going," he said suddenly. "I have things to do."

"What things?" she asked abruptly, feeling rather hurt. "What could you possibly—"

"Notes to write, music to compose, managers and ballet rats to frighten," he snapped. "All in a day's work for the Opera Ghost, you know…"

"Erik, don't go," she pleaded. "I apologize for being so…"

"I'm quite used to the curiosity of women by now," he retorted. "Don't trouble yourself about me."

"But…" Tora began.

Erik grasped her hair suddenly, madly, curling it around his hand, and, drawing nearer, put it to his lips. He inhaled the scent, closing his eyes and sighing.

Tora didn't move. He dropped her hair and slid his hand behind her neck, his thumb on her cheek, stroking the skin.

"I am impulsive, too," he said. "Sometimes. But I try not to let it get the better of me. Still…"

He gazed at her lips longingly. "No," he whispered then. "They are not mine to claim."

Tora stared at him, almost unblinkingly. "Erik—"

"Forgive me," he sighed. "I'm going now. Don't follow me. I will come to see you later."

He ran the back of his hand along her jaw as lightly as the wings of a butterfly, briefly, and swept by in a swirl of red, opening the hollow pillar and disappearing inside almost before Tora knew what had occurred.

She breathed heavily, tracing her fingers along the cool places where his hands had touched her.

"Enigmatic," she whispered. "And infuriating."


	35. Terrible Uncertainty

**A/N: Writing this chapter was roughly equivalent to pulling out three of my teeth, at least mentally—I had to do about five or six rewrites before I thought I got it right, and that was really no fun. But once the words finally started flowing like water from my fingers, it became fun again, as it usually does. Sorry this took so long to get up. Being eight months preggers has me absolutely exhausted, and this project hasn't exactly had my full attention lately.**

**

* * *

**

It was quiet in the shadows, calm and cooling. He could think here, clear his head, resting his cheek and his palm against the cold stone and drinking in its soulless serenity.

It was maddening, to feel this unnatural heat burning through his bones. He clutched at the stonework, trying to drive it from his body, to be cold and clammy again.

"I am quite sure," he said madly to nobody in particular, "that this will all end in mayhem."

Holding his mask in one hand, he wiped the sweat from his face with the other. "To think," he whispered, "she…"

The memory of her parted lips, the almost wanton expression upon her face, was more than he could bear. He struck the stone wall with his knuckles, gritting his teeth in pain as they scraped and bled a bit.

"You should be more careful at your age, Erik," he muttered. "Break the bones of your hands, and then where would you be? Nowhere! All your genius wasted!"

At the word _genius_ he laughed, a small and bitter gasp, and ran the fingers of his uninjured hand through the limp, sparse strands of his hair. They were plastered to his head, sodden with cold sweat.

"Help me," he begged the nonexistent God, or any god there might be listening. "Help me…"

Breathing heavily, he sank to the stone floor, leaning his head against the wall, and waited, glancing every so often at his watch.

* * *

Christine felt as though she were attending her own execution. 

She trudged into her dressing-room with the speed of a carefully sliding snail, at last collapsing into a chair near her vanity as though she had lost all feeling in her legs. Her arms splayed, and she wiped at her eyes.

It was then that she espied the note upon her dressing-table, marked in a red sprawling hand, childish but legible. She picked it up slowly with trembling fingers, and closed her eyes briefly as she opened it, dreading what she would find inside.

Slowly her eyes scanned the paper, and as she read, her face grew whiter and whiter, her mouth opening in a little _O_, her eyes wide.

The note fluttered from her fingers, and she buried her head into her arms, bursting into long held-back tears—though whether they were truly from a deep relief or something more inexplicable, she could not have said even to herself.

* * *

_I will not be coming for you tonight, Christine. I will likely never come for you any other night again. I hope you are not too disappointed, though I daresay you may very well be feeling as though you have been reprieved from the hangman's noose. I don't flatter myself regarding you, not anymore._

_Forgive me for my wantonness. I have been selfish. You need not fear my wrath or my humiliating passions from this day forward. It has been a great pleasure being your tutor—nay, a joy rare among joys—but it is time to end our rapport and cut short the diabolical threads which hold us together._

_Farewell, my dear. _

[here, the word _Yours_ was vaguely visible, but it had been hastily crossed out, as though written in a fit of absentmindedness and caught just in time

_Erik_

* * *

Tora stumbled back into the ballroom, looking for Patrick. Seas of color blocked her way, and she pushed impatiently to the top of the stairs, scanning wildly for a sight of her lone _ami._

"Nowhere," she muttered. "Where could he…"

A clock tolled the hour just then, and her face went slightly white. "Oh, poor Patrick," she whispered, feeling terrible, but fighting off the absolutely inexplicable urge to giggle. _I never should have left him like that… _she thought. _I should have at least made sure that he had some distracting young lady on his arm to replace me..._

She jostled through the milling masses, running to the corridors.

"What_…mon Dieu!"_ she yelped, tripping over a small crack in the floor and nearly falling flat on her face. "Oh, these shoes," she snapped, tearing them from her feet and running down the slick polished floor in her stocking feet.

"Suzette," she gasped, slipping a little on the floor as she burst into the dormitories, "Suzette, have you seen…"

She stopped, grabbing on to the doorframe to stop herself from sliding. "Oh," she said.

"Blind drunk," Suzette snapped. "Going on and on in English and some other gabble that I couldn't identify for the life of me." Patrick was slumped on the floor, against the wall, eyes closed in stupor, his mouth open and snoring a little.

Tora held a hand to her mouth, slightly sick with shame, but mixed with the strange impulse to burst into laughter again. "Suzette, I'm sorry…" she muttered. "I'm…a bit giddy. It's been such a confusing night…"

"Sorry, indeed!" Suzette snapped. "I thought you might be _dead_."

Tora gaped. "_Mon Dieu, _Suzette, you needn't have worr..."

"How was I to know?" Suzette bit out, almost in a sob. "It was all I could do not to run up to the box myself to see if you were still drawing breath! I thought you might be hung from a rafter, looking like Buquet with your tongue all black and sticking out…" She shuddered, dry-heaving a little. "God, I thought I had buried that memory. When they brought him up on the stretcher, the cloth slipped a little, and I saw the face…"

Tora felt cold. "Suzette, please...I wish you wouldn't say such--"

"So," interrupted her friend coldly, but Tora could detect the intense note of interest in her voice. "How goes it with--" Here she dropped her voice to a whisper, "_Le Fant__ô__me?"_

Tora shivered, but an odd smile trembled on her face. "He's infuriating, God knows," she said, forcing the smile from her face and tearing at the pins holding up the lesser part of her hair, tossing them into a jar on one of the dressing-tables. "But…"

"But what?" asked Suzette, attempting to sound distant and failing miserably.

Tora sighed, dropping her hands and plucking absently at her dress. "But frighteningly…_endearing_," she stammered. "I don't know what to make of him. One minute he roars like a lion and the next he shrinks from human contact like a terrified schoolboy. He's strong and weak all at once, rock-hard but inherently vulnerable. There's some…fatal flaw in him somewhere, Suzette, something I'm not sure couldn't be remedied by the right hand…"

"Oh, _don't_," spat Suzette, barking out a mirthless laugh. "Go about trying to change a man and you'll only end up as miserable as he. Men have got to change themselves, or they'll never change at all."

"But with the right influence…the proper…" attempted Tora.

Suzette shrugged. "It must be he," she insisted. "Not by your doing, but by his own mind, his own hand, even if it is begun by your influence. If there was anything I learned with Carolus…"

Tora glanced sideways at her. "Suzette, are you still fond of him?"

"Oh, I suppose 'fond' would not be too far from the truth," admitted Suzette grudgingly. "I still regard him with…a sort of strained friendliness. But any romantic feelings are long past now. It was all never anything more than a casual, idiotic affair, at any rate...nothing to shout from the rooftops, for certain."

Tora smiled, but it was strained. "Suzette," she whispered, a sudden thought making her feel slightly nauseous. "Do you really think that Erik…killed those people? By his own will?"

There was a very slight scuffling sound in the corner, suddenly, and they both turned to look.

"Nothing," said Tora, glancing into the shadows and seeing only darkness. "A rat, most likely..." But she felt an odd shiver run up her spine that had nothing to do with rats. "At any rate...do you really think he..."

Suzette's face darkened as she contemplated Tora's query, stretching out a cramped leg. "I couldn't say," she said. "But the coincidences are far too damning to completely rule out any part he might have played in their deaths. You must admit to that."

Tora shuddered. "I shall ask him," she said in a low voice, almost to herself. "He would tell me, I think…he would not lie about such a thing."

"Not even to secure your favor?" queried Suzette. "You really think he would blithely confess to murder, and this to the woman he desires? Hardly a guaranteed way to get into your good graces, _cherie._ Even he must know _that._"

Tora blushed scarlet. "He would tell me," she said stubbornly. "And…as for whether he..."

"Would it make you think of him any less?" demanded Suzette, cutting her off. "Think about it, honestly. Would you turn a blind eye, or would you be horrified to hear him confess to such evil acts?"

Tora turned her head, staring into her hand-mirror. She gripped the handle until her knuckles turned white, gazing at her own face. _Worry makes you rude, Suzette,_ she thought absently, though she didn't dare say it aloud.

"He must have had a reason," she whispered, although the words sounded empty in her ears. "If he did…kill them. There must have been some perfectly good..."

"I can't believe you're justifying it," snapped her friend. "We don't know he did kill any of them, that is true, but _what if he __did?_ There is no pardon for such wanton taking of life! That concierge did nothing _I_ know of! Except…"

"Except take Mother Giry's place," whispered Tora, her face turning white. "Do you really think he would…"

"Who knows, _cherie?_" muttered Suzette. "You have said yourself that he is unpredictable and prone to a rather violent temper. When such a man is angered, there's no telling what he might do in a rage."

Tora put down her mirror upon the dressing-table with a little _clack._ "We'll see," she said in a low voice. "In the meantime, we'd better do something with _him..._" She gestured at Patrick with a fond but slightly disgusted little smile. "What was he thinking, getting so drunk?" she asked in bafflement, picking up her hairbrush and stroking her tresses with the bristles. "Curse these tangles," she muttered, fighting with a particularly nasty one on the left side.

"The Irish boy was pining for you, I think," Suzette said with a short little laugh. "He said your name more times than I can count…and…" Suddenly her brow furrowed. "Tora," she whispered. "I think perhaps he knows. About…_him._ Did you ever mention your spectral friend, by any chance?"

Tora froze in mid-brush and turned her head. "What?" she asked in confusion. "No, never…not really…I can't think. Why, did Patrick…?"

"He said your name and _Le Fant__ôme_ in the same sentence," Suzette said. "I had no idea of what else he said--it might as well have been Greek for all I knew--but the context…"

Tora closed her eyes. "He must have put two and two together, somehow," she said. "Perhaps...perhaps he'll forget all that in the morning." Her voice was not as confident as her words.

"The headache will certainly make his head a bit more muddled than usual," giggled Suzette, and Tora joined her, though her laugh was a bit more nervous.

She went back to brushing her hair, when another tiny scuffle in the corner alerted her attention. She glanced over and saw a flash of white on the floor, the corner of an envelope peeking out from a shadow.

Making sure Suzette hadn't seen, Tora nonchalantly went back to brushing her hair, glancing nervously at the envelope every so often.

_Go out, Suzette…be distracted…by something…_

Suddenly, as if by magic, there was a clatter in the hallway, followed by a high-pitched grunt.

Suzette's head shot up. "What on earth?" she asked irritably.

"It might be Sophie," said Tora quickly. "She's most likely had too many stolen sips of champagne. You'd better go see," she added slyly.

Suzette shrugged. "What do I care?"

"Suzette!" Tora protested indignantly.

Her friend threw up her hands. "Very well, then…" she snapped. "Like as not she's tripped and broken her ankle, the idiot…" She stalked off, muttering.

Tora lost no time. She slid on her stocking feet to the corner, grabbing the note and nearly tearing it in half to see what it contained.

_Tora,_

_I shall be waiting in the corridor at midnight. You will not see me; I shall be in the shadows so as not to be detected by the rest of the Opera's patronage. I shall grab your hand; do not act surprised or frightened. Likely there will be guests still milling about, and you must not draw suspicion to yourself. I still very much value my privacy._

_We have many things to discuss, I daresay, though some topics may be less savory than others, especially according to your little friend Suzette._

'_Til then,_

_Your Obdt. Servant_

_Erik_

_

* * *

_

A hand descended on the girl's shoulder, soft and warm. "Christine?"

"Oh," she sniffed, wiping at her eyes. "You came back."

"I was worried sick. Whatever put you in such a dreadful state?" he asked, blue eyes filled with both concern and righteous anger. "Was it that man you refuse to speak of? The one I heard—"

"Raoul," she said quickly. "Don't ever talk about it again. It's over now...it's all over. At least that's what _he_ says..."

"But aren't you going to tell me—"

"Someday, dear," she said, putting her hands in his. "Someday. For now, all you need to know is that my honor was never sullied."

"Was it in danger of being so?" he asked suddenly, eyes flashing.

Christine put a hand to her head. "N...no," she whispered. "I don't believe so. He was always very polite...he never..."

"Christine, I shall go mad if you do not explain this affair to me—" Raoul sputtered.

"Later," she said, sighing. "I am too tired now. Take me home! Take me home to Mamma. You will do that, won't you, Raoul?"

"I..." His face was still a mask of angry confusion, but it softened. "Yes. Yes, of course."

* * *

Tora tiptoed out into the corridor, almost at the very stroke of midnight. Most of the ballet rats had returned from their cavortings and were sound asleep, tired out from all the festive goings-on. 

Still, as Erik had predicted, there were still guests—and residents—roaming the halls, and Tora pushed past them politely, waiting with bated breath for…

The grip upon her hand was not as quick or as cold as she had expected. He was wearing gloves, for one, and he grasped only the tips of her fingers.

Tora turned, seeing a black-clad arm protruding from the shadows of a darkened side-corridor.

"Tora," the voice whispered—his mouth could not have been so close, but she heard it as though it were murmured straight into her ear.

"I'm here," she breathed (a rather unnecessary declaration, she realized with a bit of embarrassment), closing her eyes to mask the unwarranted terror mixed with irrational excitement that welled up in her throat.

She gripped his hand and allowed herself to be led inconspicuously out of the light.


	36. Secrets and Questions

**A/N: I'm sorry this took so long; it took a while to write, and an even more interminable amount of time to revise. But it's nice and long—my longest yet—so I hope it satisfies your tastes for a while. It really would be better suited to two separate chapters, being so ridiculously long, but I couldn't bring myself to split it in half, for some reason.**

**At any rate, this does end on a bit of a cliffy, but don't get too rabid if another update doesn't come for a while. I'm scheduled for labor induction in less than a week and I'm sure I won't have much time for writing with my new little one, though I'll do my best.**

* * *

She didn't dare to speak. Silence was all that surrounded them in the underbelly of the Opera, silence and dripping water mingled with the soft clicking sounds of their footsteps on the stone.

Tora stepped in something soft and squelching. She recoiled, nearly falling, but Erik held her arm.

"A dead rat," he said succinctly, almost dryly, and paused as though he were waiting to hear her cry of horror.

But she did nothing more than shiver, and attempt to scrape the awful stuff from her shoe on a nearby wall. A bit of bile rose up in her throat, which she choked back down with an effort. "It…must have been decaying for some time," she said hollowly, and she thought she heard him chuckle.

"Christine might have fainted dead away, I think," she heard him remark off-handedly. "You have a more hardy stomach than most women, I daresay."

Tora held back a reply, and squinted, trying to make him out. It was so black in these low levels...all she could see were the two points of light that were his eyes, reflecting from the far off light of a burning torch upon a wall.

"You look a bit like a rat yourself in the dark," she said, and then suddenly felt embarrassed, compelled to explain herself. "Your eyes…"

"Ah, yes, my eyes," he sighed, pulling on her arm and leading her forward. She trod carefully, hoping not to step in anything horrible again. "Many have remarked upon them. The Sh…" He broke off abruptly, and she heard a clack of teeth.

"The what?" she asked without thinking. Almost immediately she regretted it. She was sure he would think she was prying and abruptly turn nasty.

But to her surprise (and relief), he simply sighed again. "The Shah," he said, "of Persia."

"Persia?" Tora asked in shock. "Erik, you were actually…"

"Yes," he retorted. "I was in Persia, in Mazenderan as a matter of fact, for quite a few years in my prime. You might say I specialized in…architecture."

"And…and…" Tora wasn't sure what she was trying to ask. So many questions felt almost about to tumble from her lips that she couldn't speak a word for fear of sounding foolish and garbled.

"I would not tell this to simply any woman, for fear of squeamishness," Erik interrupted dryly, "but the Shah wanted to put out my eyes, you know…"

"What?" Tora gasped. "Why?"

There was silence for a moment.

"His reasons were twofold," Erik said, and his voice was low and controlled, as though he were holding back the anger of a painful memory. "I had built him a magnificent palace, you see—or rather, it was built under my direction—and the mysteries of the secret doors which he loved so much were, in his jealous mind, in danger of being…commandeered by or sold to an enemy who might manage to get his hands on my intellect."

"And…the second reason?" Tora queried, not quite sure whether to believe any of this or not.

Erik sighed. "He was, like most, quite curious about the catlike nature of my orbs. He wished to have them dissected and studied so that the reason behind their rather quaint appearance and…odd tendencies might be discovered."

Tora shuddered, both from the cruelty of the monarch and the offhand way in which Erik had said "dissected". "How disgusting," she said, her voice laced with venom. "As though you were…"

His fingers stiffened around hers. "Yes," he said, sighing again, and his voice was detached, cold. "As though I were an animal." The words were said almost by rote, as though he had said them—or thought them—so many times that they held no meaning anymore.

Tora closed her eyes.

"The Shah thought nothing of human life," Erik said grimly. "It was his to take as he would. I, of course, was something less than human to him, some very intelligent pet that could be disposed of as he saw fit when my usefulness had run its course." He said it so matter-of-factly, almost nonchalantly, but still an undercurrent of old, tired bitterness was latent in his tone.

Tora made a noise in the back of her throat, something between a snarl and a sob.

Erik chuckled. "Have I upset you after all, child? Forgive me…I forget that you are, when all is said and done, a true female at heart…so given to tender sensibilities…how utterly inane you all can be, really!"

"Anyone would be shocked—" Tora began in sputtering indignation, but Erik cut her off.

"It was long ago," he said. "It does not matter now. Pray don't lose your tears for my sake."

Tora was hard-pressed to come up with a retort, and many minutes were spent in silence as they traveled down, down. She began to feel dizzy, almost faint.

"Is the way really so long?" she whispered, forgetting her irritation and feeling cold, wanting inexplicably to shrink closer to him for protection or comfort. "It seemed so much shorter all those times before…"

"You were a girl then, and everything captivated you, I daresay," Erik remarked sardonically. "Which reminds me…how ever did you find your way here on your own, those few times you…?"

Tora shivered. "I don't know…part shadow-memory, part sixth-sense. You know…" She cut herself off abruptly. She was afraid that if she told him that she could feel him sometimes with her mind, his presence like the keen edge of a knife-blade, he would dismiss it as sheer nonsense and make some scathing remark about the imagination of women.

Erik sighed. "I shan't prod you. Still…" The curiosity in his voice left a little trail in the air.

"I'll tell you another time, perhaps," said Tora. "Though you doubtless believe that I owe you for that gruesome tidbit about Persia."

She heard the smile in his voice, could almost see it with her mind, like corners of a curved moon.

"Ah," he said. "Yes."

"Erik…" she said suddenly. "What exactly were we planning on discussing…on _doing?_" She immediately flushed. She hadn't meant to sound so blatantly suggestive, but there was no taking it back now without sounding foolish.

His hand stiffened a little.

"Nothing of importance," he said gruffly, "at least as far as doing. Discussing is another matter entirely, one that I will breach with you when we reach my dank abode."

"It really isn't so dank on the _inside_," Tora amended, swallowing her embarrassing disappointment at his having artfully dodged the better part of the question. "Or at least…it wasn't."

"I still keep it in reasonably good repair," Erik admitted grudgingly. "But I live like a mole in a burrow, and I…tire of it…sometimes."

"Then why ever don't you move to the surface?" Tora asked in exasperation, and then immediately felt hot with shame.

Erik made an indeterminate sound in reply.

"Privacy," she said in embarrassment, answering her own question. "You crave privacy as though it were an exotic fruit, it seems..."

"Yes," he remarked indiscriminately, not sounding as though he were quite sure of himself. "But…"

"What?"

"Privacy is not always to be desired."

Tora felt a little shiver. "Is that why…Chr…"

"Yes," he said again, this time rather brusquely, indicating that he wished to speak no further on the subject.

_And now me…again,_ she wanted to say, but sensed that she might trigger a rather bad reaction if she did. She forced herself to be silent.

"Here," he whispered suddenly. "A secret way…to make the journey a little less long…"

She heard a creak of something opening.

"I should ask you," he said suddenly, "do you mind terribly…getting your dress a bit dirty?"

"I…" Tora stammered, taken entirely aback. "Why? Is it the passage?"

"In a way," he said, with a little chuckle. "It is more akin to a slide, actually…and I daresay no one has bothered to clean it since it was built."

Tora grimaced. "I…well…"

She felt him shrug fluidly beside her. "If you'd rather not, I don't care one way or the other." She could hear the subtle challenge in his voice, and felt herself being drawn to the bait like a wriggling fish.

Making a noise in the back of her throat, she grasped his arm, feeling like a sullen fool. "Fine. The secret way, then."

"Very well," he replied—a bit triumphantly, she thought—and with surprising energy and boldness, he grasped her around the waist and slid down the trap door, holding her to his side.

A faint shriek echoed through the darkness, startling a few nearby rats, but quickly faded into nothing more than a spiraling echo.

* * *

Suzette felt about to tear her hair out with worry.

After they had carried Patrick between them to his usual bed in the working quarters, Tora had said something vague about "somewhere I must go" and disappeared.

"_Mon Dieu!_ Where could she be?" Suzette muttered, scanning the dormitories. They were packed with chittering little dancers, but Tora was nowhere to be seen.

Suddenly, Suzette spotted a bit of cream-colored paper atop her pillow. It was a relatively small corner, looking as though it had been torn from a larger piece.

She snatched it up, staring at the cramped black writing.

_Suzette,_

_I am visiting…a friend. You know, no doubt, of whom I speak. Don't tell Patrick—I don't want him doing anything foolish, and besides, you know how poor his French is—he likely won't understand a word you say._

_I shall be back as soon as I can. If I am gone more than a day, tell the ballet mistress that I was pressed to go to the bedside of a dying relative in Rouen. Make up any likely fabrication you can think of. I assure you, I will come to no harm. _

_Do not speak of this to anyone. If E. were to be discovered, it would destroy him. _

_Do not worry for me. I will be all right._

_Your amie,_

_Tora _

"Perhaps he deserves to be destroyed," muttered Suzette, quickly stuffing the note under her mattress when she was sure no one was looking. "If any harm were to come…"

"Suzette, Suzette," chattered Sophie, flouncing over and grabbing her arm. "Everyone is talking about the stage hand that they saw you with! They say you snuck him into the dormitories! Is he your new beau?"

"No, of course not," snapped Suzette, a bit more irritably than she meant. Snuck him into the dormitories, indeed! It had simply been the closest place to deposit him, not to mention convenient while she waited for Tora to return from her rendezvous—and besides, she'd had no idea of where the boy usually slept until Tora had returned and helped her carry him there, but she was certainly in no mood to explain all _that_ to Sophie. "We barely know each other. Besides, he speaks hardly any French, and I certainly do not speak enough of that gobbledygook to understand his English."

"But Lise said…" began Sophie.

"Lise is an idle gossip," said Suzette brusquely. "You should have realized by now that nearly every word out of her mouth is either a false rumor or a gross exaggeration of truth."

Sophie frowned. Then her face lit up again. "But Tora was seen with him, too! They say he was on her arm at the masqued ball! Are you fighting over him? Is that why you're so cross when I mention it?"

"Sophie!" Suzette barked, and then burst into laughter. "You dreadful little thing! Go chatter and gossip with your little friends, if it pleases you. You'll get no more from me, as it obviously is no use to tell you the truth!"

"Very well, then," Sophie said a bit loftily, though it was clear she was hiding disappointment at not being able to wring juicy details from her elder. She skipped back to her entourage, stumbling a bit over her own slippers.

Suzette collapsed into her pillow and closed her eyes, trying in vain to block out the noise, the light from the still-lit lamps, and the horrible fear she had that Tora would never be seen again.

* * *

"You're not going to say anything, are you," demanded Tora, vainly attempting to brush the filth from her dress—she was glad she had worn a fairly plain one, but the grotty feeling it held now was still positively irritating. She was covered in dirt and a bit of dreadful slime, the origin of which she would have preferred not to think about.

Erik, no less dirty, held the tips of her fingers—rather standoffishly, it seemed—and led her to the lakeside. "Erik already endured your charming epithets back at the passage opening and I daresay he isn't eager for any more. Silence seemed best."

"I was right to call you a wretch—among other things," snapped Tora, tripping a little and holding back a gasp when he deftly swept her back to her feet. "I…that is to say…I…"

"Pray don't ruin your lovely mouth by talking," said Erik wryly, lifting her into the boat. She swallowed, temporarily distracted by the feel of his long, wiry hands about her waist.

"You really should stop making those kinds of remarks, you know," she said sullenly. "They…"

"Have already gotten me into all sorts of trouble," he said emotionlessly, stepping into the boat and pushing the pole into the water to propel them across. "I don't quite care what effect my words have on others anymore. Erik says what he wishes, and he is freer for it."

"And I _do _wish you would stop that infernal…" spluttered Tora, searching for the right words. "Referring to yourself…by name…it's infuriating."

"Perhaps you'd like me to push you out of the boat," Erik said with irritating calm. "The Siren…"

"Oh, don't you dare bring that up," warned Tora between clenched teeth. "I…"

She stopped herself, folding her arms and pinching her lips shut. "I'll tell you off when we get on dry land," she said quietly.

Erik laughed a little, and Tora relaxed. His laugh put her more at ease than his dreadful chuckle, which always seemed to sound a bit like bones rattling together.

"My dear," he said in a much lighter tone, "have I told you…" He abruptly fell silent.

"What?" she demanded, and then, frightened by the eerie echo of her voice that reverberated through the cold subterranean space, lowered it to a whisper. "Told me what?"

He was silent for a moment longer, and then said, as though at great personal expense, "I am glad…very glad…of your…I am glad of…I am…very pleased that you returned."

"Hmph," she said, wetting her lips—they suddenly seemed very dry—and trying to find a more comfortable position on the hard wood seat. She shifted her knees, and the boat rocked dangerously.

"Careful," Erik warned, almost in a sing-song. "The Siren might get you…"

Tora gripped the sides of the boat, her eyes bulging in rage. "Erik," she said in a very low, dangerous voice. "Do you…"

She was about to say _value your life_, but the horrible thought came to her suddenly that of the two of them, he was far more deadly than she—and seriously so, not simply in jest.

"Oh? What was that?" he asked, making his voice echo off the walls like the murmuring of spirits. _That, that, that _bounced back and forth over and over, and Tora shivered.

"Nothing," she said sullenly, suddenly feeling very cold and more than a bit frightened. She began to wonder if she was truly as safe as she had imagined, and whether or not this had all been a dreadful mistake.

"Ah," he said softly, as the boat bumped against the stone of the landing, "here we are, my charming one. Shall we?"

He leapt out of the boat with a quick grace, and proffered her his gloved hand.

Tora took it gingerly.

The touch of leather on her skin sent a kind of electric shock up her arm and down her spine, and she felt a thrill of sudden, inexplicably delicious horror. The very air around him seemed to crackle with danger, as though he were a flame and she the moth, flirting with the deadly fire and only just escaping having her wings singed.

She very nearly drew back her hand, but resisted at the last moment. Her fingers trembled with the effort, however, and the motion did not escape Erik.

"Are you afraid of me, _cherie_?" he queried, but instead of the wicked sparkle in his tone that she might have expected, his voice was tired, almost resigned.

"Perhaps," she said, her voice low.

"I have that effect, don't I?" he asked, and the bitterness that had been in his voice when he spoke about the Shah was much more obvious when he spoke now.

Tora closed her eyes. "Don't deprecate yourself," she said. "It is only the dark which closes in around me…like a tomb. T…take me inside."

Erik was silent as he led her through the door. Closing it behind him, he snapped his fingers, and the place fairly seemed to explode with light.

Tora blinked her eyes, shielding them with her hand, temporarily forgetting the choking fear that had enclosed her in the darkness. "Erik…what is it? It can't be candles, surely…"

"Electric lighting," he said with a bit of pride. "Apparently some fellow in America has stumbled upon it too, but I believe I perfected the method. It does make snapping one's fingers quite inopportune, however, if it occurs unthinkingly…fortunately I am not in the regular habit of doing so, and so am not in the least inconvenienced."

Tora giggled, in spite of herself. "I…shall try to remember," she remarked. "Dear heaven, it is so bright…"

"If it is too luminescent for your taste," he said dismissively, "I will dim them."

"Only…only a little," she said.

Erik fiddled with a switch on the wall, and the light immediately grew less prominent—but still more than enough.

"It's amazing, Erik," said Tora, nearly forgetting completely her fright from before, or her forebodings. Her hand drifted away from his, and she stood in the center of the room, staring at the odd wiring and protrusions that seemed to be coming out of the ceiling. "I do remember now that I heard something about it in Boston…but I never imagined…"

"It is not so very great a marvel," said Erik nonchalantly, but she could tell that he was pleased. "Simple scientific configuration, that's all…"

"How many more things have you invented?" asked Tora, lightly running her fingers along a side table.

"Many," he said shortly. "Perhaps I'll show them to you sometime."

"Sometime?" she asked, glancing at him. "Why not now?"

Erik made a noise somewhere between a sigh and a growl. "Sometime," he repeated in a dangerous breath. "I don't like prying fingers on my workmanship—some of the instruments are very delicate—"

"Oh, have it your way," Tora snapped, fiddling with a yellow rose in a vase. "You've cleaned up the place," she remarked. "It never looked this nice before. It always seemed a bit…dilapidated in the drawing-room."

Erik grunted unintelligibly.

She glanced at him again. _I believe I know why he spruced it so…_she thought. _But I'd rather not bring _her_ up again._

"You're very dirty," he remarked. "You should freshen up."

"You're not exactly fit for meeting royalty yourself," snapped Tora, scraping at the dirt on her cheeks and feeling very embarrassed.

"You remember where to go for baths, I take it?" queried Erik, ignoring her retort.

"I think so…" muttered Tora, glancing about. "What am I to do about my clothes?"

She looked back, and saw Erik standing much more stiffly than he had a moment ago. He was breathing heavily. "I…forgive me, I…overlooked something. Excuse me…"

"Erik, what did you overlook?" asked Tora, with some annoyance.

"Don't make Erik talk about it," he snapped, dashing to the Louis-Philippe room with the speed of a striking snake.

Tora stood awkwardly in the drawing-room, feeling very dirty and not wanting to sit down for fear of soiling the furniture.

She tiptoed to her old bedroom, hardly daring to look inside. She curled her fingers around the doorjamb and spotted Erik frantically throwing a lot of frilly clothes out of the wardrobe.

"…Erik?" she asked with a bit of trepidation. "What on earth…"

"They're _Christine's_, Christine's, do you understand?" he hissed. "I bought them for her…if you were to come in here and find…but you already have, now. I was such a blasted fool, I forgot to remove them before I took you down here…"

Tora walked over and very lightly put her trembling hand on his shoulder. He stiffened again and didn't move, his back facing her.

"It doesn't matter," she whispered, even though she felt a bit of the old jealousy gnawing at her still. "You're done with her…you said…"

"You don't understand," he said, and his voice was almost like a sob. "It isn't like me to forget something like this…I never leave anything unfinished."

Tora leaned her forehead against his sleeve, and he gave a shuddering sigh. "It doesn't matter," she repeated, and she realized she was speaking of more than just Christine's old clothing. "_It_ doesn't matter, not really," she said more softly, more to herself than to him.

"Eh? What's that?" he asked, somewhat irritably, shrugging her off. "Don't murmur."

_Not even in your ear?_ Tora wanted to say, but held herself off with a choked giggle.

Erik gave a disgruntled sigh. "Clean yourself up," he said, groping through the pile and throwing her a nightgown and dressing-robe. Fortunately, his hands were relatively clean—his dirty gloves lay in a corner.

Tora caught them gingerly. "She's built a bit differently than I…" she began, but Erik's eyes flashed, and Tora ran past him to the bathroom, shutting the door behind her.

* * *

Erik sat at his organ, playing softly.

Tora crept up behind him, and touched his shoulder with the very tips of her fingers.

He twitched, and turned around with a little twist to his mouth—he was still wearing the same mask, which he had apparently cleaned, and was wearing comfortable clothing of his own. The robe he wore was strange, and Tora wondered if it was Persian. She had never seen him dressed like this before, and the oddness and strange intimacy of it made her feel a bit embarrassed.

"How did you—" she began, and he cut her off.

"I have my own bath-room," he said brusquely. "Surely you don't think I use that one regularly…or at all?"

"Why did you build it in the first place if you weren't going to use it?" she asked suspiciously, taking her hand away from his shoulder.

He shrugged, and got up from the bench. He seemed smaller in these clothes, though still very tall, and Tora wasn't sure whether to feel relaxed or intimidated.

"How long do you mean to be here?" he asked suddenly, and Tora glanced sideways at him.

"Shouldn't the question be coming from my lips?" she queried. "Haven't you kidnapped me, in a way?"

"You came of your own free will," he said sullenly.

"Ah, yes," Tora amended, "but so did _she_, on more than one occasion, and she told me…"

She cut herself off, not sure how he might react, but then continued.

"She told me you…_told_ her how long she was to stay," she forced herself to blurt out, "and that you kept her here…she hadn't much of a choice…even when she came back of her own will…she felt trapped by you."

"She told you that, did she?" Erik said softly, almost wickedly, and he sat down on the bench again, putting his hands upon his knees. "The child did not exaggerate. I shall be honest enough about that."

"But…" Tora began.

Erik sighed, for what seemed the hundredth time that night. "You need to understand…she was…is…like a frightened rabbit. When rabbits are frightened, what do they do?"

Tora shook her head, her thoughts too muddled to come up with a reply.

Erik continued. "They bolt at the first chance of escape without thinking of the consequences, or any other options that exist but to flee. I had no choice, if I wanted to keep her. I had to impose rules, enforcements, or else I might have lost her entirely. You, on the other hand, seem more inclined—for whatever foolhardy reason—to willingly seek my company, without such austere imposition."

"And so," Tora said with a raised eyebrow, "you leave these choices entirely up to me?"

"Oh, I am tempted," he said with a strangely menacing lean forward, "to keep you here against your will, but I know you far too well for that. You are as different to Christine as earth is to water. You don't like being forced into anything, and you might react rather violently—or resourcefully. Christine was far too blindly obedient and frightened to do either. She is the kind of person, you see, who relies nearly entirely on being _told_ what to do. She makes very few decisions herself, and when she does, they are usually entirely dependent on the advice that another person has given her. You, my dear, on the other hand…" His smile sent a shiver up her spine. "You remind me of a hawk, rather than a rabbit. A spirited, fierce-eyed hawk."

"As I recall," Tora shot back, "you were the hawk, and I was the helpless bird—according to you. Remember?"

Erik seemed blank for a moment, and then thrust back his head and roared with laughter. "To think you would recall such an insignificant thing," he sputtered, "after all this time!"

"I have a long memory, when it suits me," Tora said blandly. "And our first meeting was rather worthy of remembrance."

Erik's laughter continued, and then faded as he regressed into his own memory. "Ah, yes," he said, and she thought he sounded rather ashamed. "I struck you, do you remember that?"

"How could I forget?" Tora retorted. "The headache took…" She trailed off. "It's like Persia…and Christine," she said, and he looked up quizzically. "It doesn't matter now," she explained.

He smiled again, but there was a bitter little twist to his mouth.

She couldn't see his eyes in the light, but suddenly she felt them travel over her body, and despite being fully clothed, she had a horrid feeling of being entirely naked under his gaze.

"We were going to have a little discussion, if I recall," he said softly. His tone indicated that he did not in any way look forward to it.

"Oh…that," said Tora, unconsciously folding her arms over her breasts to cover them from his scrutiny. "Perhaps another time."

"I would rather this were taken care of as soon as possible, if you don't mind," retorted Erik, and Tora shivered. "I don't know if I want to," she said. "Talk…about…"

"What?" he asked, and his tone was sardonic, almost light, but his voice abruptly turned black. "The murders?"

Tora blanched, and backed away a few steps. "You mean…you did? You killed…"

"Child, listen to me," he said with another sigh. "Buquet stumbled into my…a certain room I have…by accident. I had no knowledge of it until after he had taken his own life by hanging."

"But why would he do that?" Tora demanded, almost in tears. "Was he completely mad?"

"The…singular nature of that room…" Erik said rather half-heartedly, "is such that one who is trapped in it for long periods of time tends to go quite mad."

"Erik, what are you talking about? Explain this to me!" Tora demanded. "Why would you even have such a room, and what possible…"

"Here," he said, getting up and motioning for her to come, "I can see there's no placating you by watered-down descriptions. You will have to see it in its entirety."

Tora treaded cautiously behind him. They came to a little room, in which a series of little steps climbed up to a small window. Erik paused at the foot of these winding metal stairs for a moment and glanced at her.

"Ladies first," he said rather sardonically, gesturing with his hand, and Tora cautiously put one foot in front of the other, holding on to the rail.

Her foot caught, suddenly, and she slipped backwards with a gasp, only to feel long hands about her waist catch her before she could tumble down.

"You should be more careful, _my dear_," his voice muttered in her ear, and Tora shivered, the hairs on the back of her neck standing up.

His hands abruptly left her waist after he had helped her stand upright, and they continued up the stairs until they reached a small platform at the very top.

"It is dark in the chamber now," said Erik with a bitter little smile, "but it will soon be flooded with light! Observe!"

He did something with his hands that was far too quick for Tora to see, but indeed, the small window soon glowed with a bright light.

"Look through it," whispered Erik, and Tora cautiously leant forward, putting her nose to the glass.

"_Oh_," she gasped. "It's…it's…"

"All an illusion," said Erik, "but all the same, I'm rather proud of it."

"It looks like a real forest," said Tora, "but it seems a bit odd…"

"It's meant to be African," said Erik strangely, and pulled Tora back from the window. "You didn't happen to see the gibbet in the corner, did you?" he asked, and Tora put her hand to her mouth. "What?" she exclaimed in horror. "Why would there be—Erik, do you _hang_ people in—"

"No, my dear," he sighed, and put out the light. "They hang themselves. It's a torture chamber, you see…"

"What on earth do you mean?" she demanded.

"The light," Erik said wearily, but Tora could have sworn that there was a hint of malicious pride in his voice, "produces warmth as well. The floor heats up, as do the walls and ceiling. It soon becomes nigh unbearably hot, and with a few…flourishes, many are led to believe that they are actually in Africa dying of thirst. There are different panels that change…some make the room look like a desert, others like an oasis, which is the most torturous of all. When the victim can stand no more…" He made a choking gesture with his hand and stuck his tongue out—a morbid attempt at humor that did not amuse Tora one bit.

"And Buquet," she demanded, "you put Buquet in this chamber? Why?"

"He bumbled into it himself, the fool, as I told you," Erik bit out. "I was careless…I must have left the stone open. Or perhaps he was spying and saw me make use of it."

Tora raised an eyebrow.

"If Erik tells you much more, he shall be giving away all his secrets," Erik snapped. "But very well. There is a stone…in the third cellar…it rolls back…but don't ever dare to try and find it! If you do, you'll drop into the torture chamber, and you will surely meet the same fate as that intoxicated idiot."

"But, Erik," said Tora in desperate, angry confusion, "You use this as a shortcut? How, when there is no way out? And you say you did not kill Buquet…but I saw that the light is controlled from here! You must have…"

"Listen to me," said Erik in a barely controlled voice. "Only I know where the hidden spring is upon the wall that opens up the door to the rest of the house--which is how I make use of the shortcut--and only I know the way to avoid treading on the hidden switch upon the floor which turns on the light. As I was saying, if you were to drop in here, you would no doubt wander around looking for a way out and tread upon the hidden switch which activates the heat, _just as he did_. And even now that you know, you wouldn't stand a chance, especially with your height, of finding the spring to get out. I won't always be here in my house to catch such a mistake, you know…"

Tora's breath came heavily. "This is your way," she said slowly, "of dealing with intruders? Making them die a slow and painful death?"

"I enjoy my privacy," he said deliberately, and turned his back to her without another word, heading down the little stairs.

"What about the concierge?" demanded Tora, walking quickly after him. "The chandelier…"

"An accident," he said, "Or so it would seem..."

"What on earth do you mean by that?" Tora exclaimed.

Erik sighed, gripping the rail, and Tora nearly fell down the stairs in her effort to halt behind him. "I…was not myself that night," he said slowly. "I was angry. I had gotten myself half-drunk, and my…more sinister tendencies began to manifest themselves. At another time, I might have controlled myself, but I felt a deep hatred, a desperation…old Giry had been so good, so helpful. I could not stand to have her sacked in such a way. Had I been thinking clearly, I simply would have thought up another demonstration to show the managers that I was serious—dear God, had it been Debienne and Poligny, all I would have had to do was send a note, and it would have been enough, but these new fellows just didn't seem to believe that any of it was in earnest. I fairly snapped."

"So you…made the chandelier fall? You really did?" whispered Tora.

"With a file," said Erik in a very tired voice, "and a bit of elbow grease. It was very old, already, you know…I really did make myself believe, for a while, that it had fallen of its own accord. I pushed the incident out of my head. What did I care, after all? Everything was going according to plan…Giry was reinstated, the managers began to fear me more than ever…that screech-owl Carlotta had been disgraced, thanks to my ventriloquism…"

"Ah," said Tora, "so _that_'_s_ how she 'turned into a toad'."

"Yes" said Erik, and allowed himself a grim smile. He stepped down from the stairs, and Tora came behind him, shifting her feet nervously.

"Erik," she said uncertainly, "all of that—not being yourself—doesn't change the fact that you…committed…m…murder." The words were hard-pressed to come from her lips, and her mouth felt dry.

"You've no idea," he said with a mirthless, frightening chuckle—it was bitter and strange. "In Mazenderan…it was not only architecture that I specialized in."

Tora turned white. "Don't tell me any more," she begged, grabbing his sleeve. "I don't want to know…I don't want to hear…"

"Very well," he said dryly. "Some other time, perhaps." His shoulders were not as straight as they had been earlier; there was a kind of depressed slump to them. "No doubt," he said softly, "you'll be wanting nothing more to do with me…unless the danger of consorting with a confessed killer appeals to your sense of spirit."

Tora shivered. She felt a little sick.

"You've put it behind you," she said. "I should hope…"

"I have always had a mad, nigh ungovernable impulse," said Erik. "to tamper with human life. I daresay it is because my own was so chaotic and uncontrollable, at the start. Once I learnt that I could manipulate and bend the human race to my will—some select specimens, that is—I felt…omnipotent."

He had straightened again, and was staring at his own hands. There was a kind of odd aura surrounding him. It was almost as though he were glowing with a strange inner darkness, something that had been eating away at him for years.

Tora swayed a little, feeling faint. She clutched the edge of the railing at the bottom of the stairs for support. "Please," she whispered, holding out her hand. "Please…if not for my sake, then for your own, Erik…put it all behind you."

"I suppose you'd like me to smash the torture chamber, for starters," Erik said wryly. "Perhaps you'd like me to go aboveground and find a house overlooking the street."

"If…if I were with you," stammered Tora, "would…would you? If I…"

Erik stiffened, turning his face to stare at her. His eyes were burning in the dim light.

"What are you suggesting, my dear?" he inquired softly, almost dangerously.

Tora swallowed. "If…if…we…"

"Speak up, child," he snapped, and she noticed that his hands were trembling a little, though he tried to control them.  
"Erik…do you remember what I told you in the box?" she whispered desperately. "That I…that I…"

The words refused to leave her mouth.

"Love me?" he asked bitterly. "Oh, yes…and if you want my opinion, I think you've had a bit too much champagne this evening."

"I haven't drunk a drop," she snapped, suddenly feeling extraordinarily irritated. "I'm completely…I…oh!"

She whirled around, her back to him.

She thought she heard him choke back a chuckle, but she wasn't sure.

"I _do_ wish you would get rid of this thing," she said sullenly, looking pointedly at the little window. "Or at least disable the mechanism…and perhaps make the entrance a bit more difficult for curious passers-by to stumble upon. With your brilliance, you could surely make it impossible for anyone but yourself to get inside!"

Tora felt his fingers upon her hair. "You're a clever little beast," he said with another chuckle. "And you're right, of course."

"Will you do it, then?" she whispered, shivering a little as he slid his fingers through her tresses like snakes on a vine.

"Perhaps," he murmured. "You cause the strangest sensations in me, you know…all at once I am inspired to be both a frightful terror and a better man...a normal man."

"You could be," Tora said. "Normal. If…you really wanted…"

"Have a wife and take her out on Sundays," said Erik. "That might make me feel a little more inclined to be a part of the human race at large…"

Tora jerked. She turned her head so that she saw him out of the corner of her eye. "Am I to understand that as a proposal?" she asked rather oddly.

"A proposition…an idea," he said, and she thought he sounded rather sullen. "You did say…"

"Yes, I know," she said. "But now _you_ are the one suggesting. It…caught me off guard."

"All I ask is that you consider it," said Erik, his voice suddenly very nervous and a bit cynical. "I'll take you to the surface, now, if you wish…and you may give me your answer…at another time. Or never, if that suits you better…"

Tora's head spun. She weighed the possibilities in her mind, one after the other, tumbling over and over like small rocks that begin an avalanche.

"I can stay here," she said in a small voice. "In the old bedroom…I don't mind."

Erik was silent for a moment. "Very well," he said, and she couldn't quite make out the expression in his voice. It was enigmatic, almost unknowable.

"I shall expect an answer…of some kind…tomorrow," he said in the same strange tone of voice. "If you have none…I will take you back to the surface and I will plague you no more…you will not hear from me unless you ask."

"I…" began Tora, and shut her mouth again. "Very well."

"You know the way to your chamber," he said abruptly, turning on his heel and walking out. "Good-night."

Tora stood there alone in the middle of the room, wondering what on earth she was to do now.


	37. Reckoning

**A/N: Thanks to all for patience and support. My little Lillian is a beautiful bright-eyed two (nearly three) months old now, although unfortunately she's spent every day of it in the Newborn Intensive Care Unit—which we were fully prepared for before her birth (long story—I may post it in my forum here). She is getting better every day, however, and making so much progress that it astounds everyone around her. We hope to have her home soon.**

**With not much else to do besides spend time in the hospital with my daughter, I've actually had quite a bit of time to write, which is why the next chapter should be following very soon--it merely wants a bit of editing.**

**Regarding the story: It should be noted that the epithet of "ass" is used in the context of the period, meaning something more akin to "stubborn, obnoxious fool" rather than its coarser modern connotation of "ignorant jerk," although I suppose since the two meanings are fairly similar, it's not exactly a huge gaffe on my part if I don't make that clear to you. Blame it on my lexicographical obsessiveness more than anything—I like delineations to be precise. ;)**

* * *

She heard the door to his bedroom slam shut, and the sound made her jump.

"_Mon Dieu!_" she muttered. "Am I dreaming, or was I really just asked to consider marriage?"

She shivered. _After all, you did bring it up yourself, whether you meant to or not._

"Marry him...really marry him?" she whispered, abruptly feeling as though a boom had struck her. It sunk in, suddenly, the implications of it all. Her mind raced.

Images in her head flashed by like lightning-bursts, with frightening clarity, as though she were seeing some odd vision of the future.

Her fingers atop Erik's cold hand in a church…his face covered in a mask (white for the wedding), mouth bare of course, because he would have to kiss the bride…a fat, pompous-looking priest giving them an odd look, on the verge of refusing to marry them unless the groom agreed to uncover his face…Erik pressing money into his hand to keep him docile…words being read from the Bible, strange and echoing.

An awkward carriage ride…a silent descent…a dim room…candles being blown out…long fingers stripping at her dress, hearing him pant in anticipation—

Her mind went into a panic.

"Not yet, not now," she whispered. "It's too fast. Too fast…I can't possibly…"

It was not the prospect of marital intimacy with Erik in and of itself which terrified her so. It was the larger, more all-encompassing idea of offering up a lifetime of commitment to a man who she, in truth, barely knew aside from scattered bits and pieces…and a self-proclaimed murderer at that.

Tora put her head in her hands. "Oh, God," she whispered, pressing her nails into her forehead until they left marks.

She heard the pipe organ playing thunderously in his room, and closed her eyes. "Poor Erik," she murmured. "Poor, dear, pitiful Erik…"

She did love him in spite of everything, she was sure of it. But she was afraid that it was a kind of almost-love, a frightened bird that might fly at any moment if startled (_rather like_ _Christine la Lapine Apeureé,_ she thought with a brief smirk, which quickly faded).

What if she consented, and then found after they were married that she didn't really love him at all? What if it was only pity she felt, and friendship, both emotions combined to create the illusion of _amour_?

Worse, what if his penchant for tampering with human life—which he himself had willingly confessed to—failed to dissipate or lessen and continued to be a dark, driving force behind all that he did? She could not possibly chain herself to such a man for long. Her very spirit would be rent in twain.

_What am I to do?_ she thought, and ran her hands through her hair, feeling dizzy and sick.

* * *

Erik felt like a fool. Worse than a fool—he felt as though his entire world were sinking in an inexorable bed of quicksand, that he had just sealed his death warrant as far as any chance he might have had to win her over.

_What on earth were you thinking, you madman?_ clamored the horrible voice in his head. _You horrified the girl out of her wits. She'll never consent to such a union._

_Perhaps she will,_ whispered the half-defeated voice of hope. _She has mentioned love…perhaps she really means it._

_She lies,_ hissed the other voice. _She never loved you, never! What a preposterous thought! She seeks only to cradle your bruised pride, out of a kind of disgusted pity, no doubt. She'll break soon enough if you press her…her bluff will be laid bare._

Erik pulled sullenly at a stray lock of lank, drooping hair that had fallen into his line of vision, rubbing it between his fingers absently. "I shall never sleep tonight," he muttered, "dreading what awaits me in the morning."

_She'll probably attempt to bolt in the night…she knows too many of your secrets now to be truly trapped in this place. She could find some way out…_

"Unlikely," he whispered, taking a little pride in his own ingenuity—the mechanisms that sprung the various outer doors to his home were nearly impossible to operate—either from within or without—unless one possessed the express knowledge of their workings. "Besides, she doesn't know so very many of Erik's secrets…at least, not yet."

_Enough to destroy you if she wanted to._

The thought paralyzed him, for a moment. She knew about the torture chamber…she knew where the entrance was located…what if she did somehow manage to escape, however improbable, and lead men directly to it? She knew it was made of glass…they might bring pickaxes, heavy hammers. The glass was strong, but only so strong. It would break under heavy barrage.

Erik stood up, so quickly that his heart nearly leapt from his chest. He breathed heavily, his mind in a panic. Surely she would never betray him…but what if, after learning what she had about his morbid tendencies, she changed her mind?

The thought of her possible betrayal stabbed at his soul far more than the prospect of being found out by others. The latter was more of an annoyance than a real terror…his hands tingled suddenly with a familiar rage, and he felt incredibly vulnerable. It was unthinkable, the idea of her giving him up. He truly did not know how he could survive such a final blow.

He strode to the door of his bedchamber without fully being aware, and before he knew what he was thinking, he opened it and stepped into the parlor, intending to gather his thoughts.

Tora was there, sitting on the divan as if in a trance.

Erik started in surprise._ I thought you would be in your room, petite_.

His feet made an audible shuffle on the carpet as he stopped, and Tora's shoulders twitched.

Slowly she turned her head, and her face whitened, though her expression changed little.

"I have been thinking," Erik said rather menacingly, and her hand clutched at the armrest until her knuckles had no blood.

"So have I," she said in a surprisingly clear voice. The fingers of her other hand were spasmodically grabbing and twisting at a little fold in her dress, but she acted as though she were completely unaware of it.

"Indeed," said Erik, attempting to keep his composure. He felt a bit dizzy, but the swirling anger and knifing pain that had accompanied his earlier thoughts kept him afloat. "What exactly have you…"

"You gave me until tomorrow," she said accusingly, and there was a touch of panic in her voice. "I have hours left to tell you what I have been thinking about."

"Perhaps I have changed my mind," he said in a low voice, "and would prefer to hear it now."

Her face went a shade whiter, if that was possible, and suddenly her tone became angry. "It cannot have been more than half an hour since you stalked out of this room," Tora bit out. "How on earth do you expect me to…"

"Tell me something, Tora," said Erik, cutting her off. "Would you ever give me up to the authorities? Would you ever betray your Erik?"

Tora's eyes snapped open wide, and she stared at him in horror.

"My God," she whispered. "You think I would, don't you?"

Erik stepped back a little, his hands shaking. "Would you?" he snapped, in a desperate effort to avoid answering. "Would it ever even cross your mind?"

Tora closed her eyes and leaned her forehead on her palm. "Erik," she said very slowly, "you know that I…"

"ANSWER ME!" he shouted, but it was more like a sob.

Tora flinched, and then looked back at him, her eyes open and clear.

"Never," she whispered. "I can't promise that I haven't thought briefly about it, after what you have told me…but never would I carry out such a base, treacherous act."

Erik heard the finality in her voice, knew she was not lying, and sighed.

"If you truly want your answer now," said Tora in a tired, small voice, "to your previous…proposition, I will tell you."

Suddenly Erik felt a dread nervousness, almost panic. "There is no need…" he tried to whisper half-heartedly, but his voice would not work. Every nerve seemed strained to the point of pain, and he felt as though he were standing precariously over a fathomlessly deep chasm, staring into the blackness.

Tora sighed, and closed her eyes. "Erik, I cannot marry you."

The bottom dropped from beneath his feet, crumbling all at once, and the grinning chasm came up to greet him, roaring _You fool._

Despite that, he stood his ground, though his head was occupied with a strange buzzing and the room seemed to spin, just a little.

Still she stared at him for a split second, poised as if to say something else, and he wondered how she had the nerve to look him in the eye.

Abruptly he regained his faculties, and with them came a surge of rage. After all that talk upstairs, she really had been bluffing after all, it seemed.

"A bold response," he hissed, and she blinked. "Ah, the cruel shards of hope, how they make one bleed!" he snapped out, and suddenly flung his mask across the room.

Tora gazed after it with a bit of horror etched on her features.

"Erik…" she said with a slight note of panic, "you didn't let me finish."

"Spare me your sympathies and apologetic platitudes," snapped Erik. "You have, I suppose, every right to refuse me, but I won't bear to sit through some patronizing explanation for your choice. You will forgive me, my dear, if I am not in the mood…"

"You don't understand," said Tora, almost in tears. "I only meant…"

"Come now, dearest," he said, baring his teeth and grabbing her hand, though his manner suggested that he would rather have touched a poisonous snake at that moment. "I think you'd best go back to the dormitories now. Erik gave you his word that he would not bother you anymore…"

"_WILL_ YOU LISTEN TO ME_?_" Tora suddenly shouted, and abruptly he felt a sharp, stinging slap across his face.

She looked him in the eyes—full in the face, despite the fact that it was bare—and for the first time, she did not look away.

Her mouth twitched nervously, but her face was devoid of any other fathomable emotion besides a pinched anger.

There was a pregnant silence.

"I have killed men for less," Erik breathed, referring to the slap, and holding a hand to his cheek. He wondered at her lack of expression.

Her eyes narrowed.

"Have you killed women?" she asked suddenly. There was no horror in her tone, merely a note of daring, as though she had already guessed the answer.

She had him there. "No," he said sullenly. "Never." _Not yet._

"Well, then," she said—rather suspiciously, he thought—"I certainly hope you don't intend for me to be the first."

Erik shook his head, gritting his teeth. He bent his head near her temple. "I can't promise I haven't thought about it," he whispered rather savagely in her ear.

"Ha!" she muttered, tossing her head and jerking away from him. "You wouldn't dare."

_False bravado?_ he wondered. She was shivering—but not, he thought, from cold.

"I am going to take you to the surface now," he said snappishly, turning to get his cloak, "despite all your protestations…"

She grabbed his lapels then and pulled him so that their faces almost touched. "Now you listen to _me_, you self-pitying ass," she snapped. "It's high time you pulled yourself from the wretched mental quagmire in which you live and learned to not take every word a woman says at face value. When I said I cannot marry you, I meant that I cannot marry you _now._"

She was breathing very heavily, and her face was slightly flushed—whether it was from anger or some other emotion was difficult to detect.

Erik was very still.

"Explain yourself, _fille_," he said softly, a hint of malice still lingering.

"Erik, I must know you before I make such a choice. I must spend more time with you…We need to…to…" Tora blushed, suddenly, and let go of his lapels. "…to court, I suppose," she muttered.

"Court?" he repeated, and the word was as foreign on his tongue as though it were Nepalese. The idea itself did not strike him as impossible, but the fact that Tora was the one suggesting it seemed strange.

"Yes," she said. "It would mean, of course, that you would have to venture out a bit more than usual. Which reminds me…how _do _you go about wearing a mask and not arouse suspicions?"

Erik wordlessly went out of the room.

* * *

For a moment Tora thought she had offended him. "Erik, I didn't mean…" she began.

"Come here," she heard him say from inside his room, and cautiously she crept to the door.

"Oh," she said, and her hand fluttered to her mouth.

He was daubing a bit of what looked like pliable, pale paste around the edges of a false nose, blending it with his skin as best he could. It was convincing enough that someone walking by on the street mightn't notice that it was _faux_, but his face was so sunken and gaunt—ghastly, really—that it did almost nothing for his overall appearance other than make him a bit less nightmarish. Even with the welcome addition of a nose, he was still ugly enough to turn heads.

"Handsome devil, aren't I?" Erik said sarcastically, and Tora felt the absurd urge to laugh, but stifled it at once.

"W…well…" she muttered, not sure what to say. She wasn't sure whether to tell the truth or lie through her teeth, but she had a gut feeling that a lie would not be the best route.

"N…no…not…not at all," she said at last, feeling terrible, but surprised to see him smile darkly.

"Proper little Jane Eyre, you are," he said smugly. "Though fortunately for you, I have no mad wife locked away in the attic."

"Wh…what?" Tora stammered.

Erik sighed. "_Jane Eyre--_soppy, largely unrealistic little English novel written by a woman—rather obvious in spite of the male pseudonym it was published under for so long. It came to me recommended by an acquaintance of mine—male, surprisingly. I read it merely to humor him, and had the added bonus of being able to express my intense dislike of it—though it is, I suppose, _slightly_ touching in its maudlin, cluttered way. I would only recommend it for the sole reason that you are female and might appreciate its sentiments."

"Oh…I don't read—at least, not much," muttered Tora. "I didn't even know how, for a long time…"

"Yes, and it's a shame," said Erik, fingering his cape on a hook absently. "You have a fine mind, you know, despite your being of the weaker sex. You _should_ read. Books can transport you to other worlds if you allow them, which is something I daresay you might be interested in now and again."

Tora, torn between bristling at his barely concealed chauvinism and appreciating his praise, resignedly chose the latter. "I simply don't have time," she said. _And our conversation has now gone entirely off-subject...wonderful._

Erik raised a black eyebrow. "Speaking of time," he said, "and considering your apparent…unwillingness to return to the upper sphere for now, how exactly do you intend to explain your absence to the ballet mistress tomorrow if you fail to show up for rehearsal?"

Tora shuffled her feet. "Suzette was going to make some sort of well-thought-up excuse," she said. "I left her a note…although I'm not entirely sure…"

"Ah, yes, Suzette," said Erik irritably, dabbing a little more paste around his nose. "She knows far more about me than I would like…all thanks to you, of course, and that inane habit women have of telling each other everything."

Tora narrowed her eyes. "Don't think of harming her," she said.

"I wouldn't dream of it," Erik said unconvincingly, looking in a small hand-held mirror and examining his handiwork. Tora thought she saw a ghost of a satisfied smile flit across his face, and rolled her eyes, thinking of how poignantly ridiculous it was that Erik could be vain.

"Usually I do the moustache, too," he said, noticing her staring, "but it seemed a bit extravagant for a simple demonstration."

Tora barely choked back a giggle, covering it with a hearty cough.

Erik glanced at her again. "Drink some lemon water," he said after a moment, apparently thinking her cough was genuine. "You'll find what you need in the kitchen."

Tora blinked. _Kitchen? What kitchen? _

And then she felt foolish for not supposing that he had one, despite the fact that she had never seen it.

She realized suddenly just how much of his underground abode she had as yet left unexplored, and felt an odd little thrill up her spine. It was the kind of feeling a child gets when he discovers a secret passage in his house, something nobody knows about but him.

"Or stand there like an ignorant goose," said Erik, "and let _me_ fetch you some." He swept past her irritably.

Tora snapped her mouth shut (it had fallen open briefly) and walked after him, fuming. _Ignorant goose? I'll show him ignorant goose...I'll let him hear the most unladylike epithets I picked up on the Boston piers..._

In the end, silently watching him squeeze a lemon over a glass of water, she decided to forego coarse insults and use diplomacy instead.

"A potential…spouse should be treated with more respect, particularly a wife," she said, a little more sullenly than she had intended.

Erik snorted--an odd sound, coming from behind that false nose. "You have as yet merely expressed the potential for engagement, not marriage. When you have consented to be my wife, when we are formally engaged, perhaps I will accord you a little more reverence than I have heretofore displayed."

Tora sucked in her cheeks, attempting to ignore the fact that he had said _when, _and not _if_. Was he testing her? "You expect me to consent," she sputtered, "when you habitually speak to me as though I were a servant, or a child?"

Erik looked at her with infuriating calm and said nothing, handing her the glass of water with fluid grace.

Tora was tempted to dash it from his hand, but reflected that that was something a child would have done. She grabbed it, muttering, "Thank you."

Sitting at the table as unconcernedly as she could, she noticed that he was watching her hand with an oddly intense fascination as she slowly twirled the blue-tinted glass with her fingers. She looked away and quickly took a sip, nearly spewing it out when she realized that it was warm.

About to remark upon this to Erik, she suddenly remembered with a flash of embarrassment that the singers up above often drank the same concoction—warm and all—to protect their voices.

"I haven't sung in the chorus for a long time, you know," she said at last. "There's no need to guard my vocal chords with warm water. Besides, I always squawked like a chicken. It's not as though my singing voice was precious."

"A pleasant singing voice is precious even if it is mediocre in talent and rarely used," said Erik. "And you never squawked. Only cracked." He shifted in his seat. "Which was bad enough, of course," he amended nervously, as though he had betrayed himself somehow.

Tora blushed, feeling a bit warmly awkward that Erik had noticed her voice—and remembered it—before she had even known he truly existed, for it had been that long since she had sung publically. Even then, her voice had been blended with dozens of other girls, but she knew that any trained ear could pick out one voice amongst many others. And he had even called her mediocre, which, while certainly nothing close to glowing praise, was far more than she herself would have said of her vocal endeavors.

"You could teach me, no doubt," she said cautiously, "to improve…"

Erik glanced at her with such pain that Tora felt sick. Then he forced a chuckle. "I offered, once, and you refused. Besides, I believe my teaching days are over." He did not say it, but everything in his manner screamed _I do not wish to be reminded of Christine._

Tora felt the gnawings of jealousy in the pit of her stomach again. "Must everything always come back to miserable little Christine?" she muttered almost inaudibly, and Erik shot a glance at her, this time laced with some other emotion impossible to identify.

"You should speak up," he remarked. "I can't hear you when you mumble. Or was that merely meant for your own ears, and not for mine?"

Tora blushed again.

"It doesn't matter," she said. "Perhaps someday you will feel more inclined to teach me."

"Perhaps," he said blandly, but she saw another ghostly smile flit across his face before it was gone.

Tora sat staring at her cup for a few minutes. She was rather loathe to bring up the subject of courting again, for she would have preferred him to do it. But she felt it a necessity, since he showed no signs of resurrecting the discussion himself. "We should talk of…" she began.

As though he read her mind, Erik interrupted her. "If you truly wish to carry on with this 'courting' business," he said rather derisively, "it will only happen during the night-time. I don't like to be seen walking about by the crowds of people unless I have to, and you have your dancing to consider during the day."

Tora pursed her lips. The phraseage " it will only happen during the night-time" suddenly struck her with an outrageously inappropriate thought, and she felt a horrifying giggle well up in her throat. She choked it back and quickly took a grimacing sip of her lemon-water.

"Fine," she said coolly. "What do you plan to do during these night-time trysts?"

She thought she saw a faint flush of color rise to his cheeks, and realized her own unintentional entendre too late. _Oh, dear God... _"I have always been fond of carriage-rides," she said quickly. "And walks." _Idiot, idiot, idiot..._

"Perhaps we might sit in Box Five and observe a performance some night," he remarked dryly, and Tora raised an eyebrow, even though it was obvious he was joking. Well. At least she hoped he was.

"Wouldn't that raise a few suspicions?" she muttered. "After all, Suzette did say that Patr…" She abruptly cut herself off, sipping her lemon water again.

Tora was both frightened and gratified, glancing over her cup, to see the expression on Erik's face. She was not the only one jealous of a shadow.

"Oh, don't look at me like that, you goose," she said dismissively. "It's nothing."

"Nothing, indeed," said Erik smoothly. "Tell me, little bird…what _about_ Patrick?"

The way he said Patrick's name was uncannily akin to the way he had said "the Shah." He bit, almost spat it out, with a sort of coolly smoldering emotion that was like a spring bubbling up from the depths—concealed, but not enough to escape notice, and rapidly gaining momentum.

Tora blanched.

"Patrick…may or may not have his doubts about whether or not I'm friends with O.G., namely you, of course, and now that he's seen you, he may connect the two halves of the puzzle. I didn't tell him," she said hastily, noting his ominously incredulous lean forward, knuckles on the table, "I simply may have been a bit careless—stupid, even…I dropped odd hints—completely unintentional, I assure you—here and there in harmless conversation, without even thinking…"

Erik rose, looking like a dark pillar.

"He's a very unworthy opponent, you know," said Tora quickly. "For starters, he isn't very bright…" A white lie, but he _could _be rather dense. "He's not at all dexterous or strong…" Actually, she had noticed on more than one occasion that he had a sort of odd grace as well as strength that belied his slim frame, and she had recently (though of course she would never dream of mentioning it to Erik) noticed that Patrick had gained a surprising bit of muscle doing odd cleaning jobs around the Opera House.

"Oh, of course he's not a bad-looking boy…" She tried to sound as fondly contemptuous as possible, to avoid the appearance of either too much disdain or too much friendliness. "…but I've never had the slightest romantic inclinations toward him whatsoever." A rather large lie, to say _never—_she thought with a fair bit of embarrassment on the scandalous little fiasco aboard the ship to Paris, but that had led to nothing, and besides, what Erik didn't know couldn't hurt him.

Erik glared at her. "Your eyes are blinking. And there's far too much color in your cheeks…you're blushing!" He was really angry now, she could see; he was trembling.

Tora flushed scarlet—much redder than before, now giving the game away more than ever. She remembered with painful clarity that first night in Erik's cavernous home, when he had caught her in a lie the same way. _Your eyes are blinking too much to be telling a truth…_

"Erik, I love him like a brother, no more than that. Surely you understand…" she tried desperately.

"I have never had cause for familial affections, even in my childhood, with one notable and unhappy exception," said Erik darkly. "And the only love I have truly known in my adult life is that of the carnal kind."

"Haven't you ever had any friends?" Tora asked desperately, attempting not to be mightily embarrassed by his last comment.

Erik shrugged, though he seemed contemplative. "Few," he murmured, "but I suppose I held a sort of distantly fond affection for them, if that's what you're driving at."

"Fair enough," said Tora. "At any rate, I don't wish any harm to come to him. He's such a dear boy, and there really is no need at all for you to be the least bit jealous. I'm not lying about that."

"My dear," he said smoothly, with frightening composure, "What do you think the boy will do if he finds out the true nature of the one upon whom you have, if I am not mad or dreaming, placed your dubious desires? I saw him looking at you, at the Masque. I have no doubt of his affections—or his intentions. And I don't intend to be rivaled again by some puling, pretty lad—it's rather humiliating, if you want to know, and once was quite enough, _merci_." The spasmodic clenching and unclenching of his fist betrayed his mask of calm.

She gripped the edge of the table, and flushed faintly. "You must trust me," she said.

"Very well," said Erik calmly, "but if I find the boy meddling—or snooping—or being generally obstructive, I will be hard-pressed to stay my hand." He said it rather matter-of-factly, and Tora had the sudden flash of knowledge that he was being completely serious.

Tora gritted her teeth.

Erik glanced at his watch. "You really should be getting to bed," he said then, as if he were her father. "It is late."

She was beginning to feel bone-weary, so she didn't resist the suggestion, despite her furious disquiet. She rose from the table and began making her way around it. "Very well, then...I suppose I'll--"

Her leg caught on that of a protruding chair without warning, and she fell violently to the floor. Barely keeping herself from uttering an obscenity, she grabbed her ankle with both hands and hissed between her teeth.

Erik flew to her side so quickly she barely saw him move. He knelt gracefully down beside her, and she had the suddenly absurd thought of how much his arms and legs resembled a spider's. _Long...so long..._

Her mind went blank when he took hold of her ankle with his thin, cool fingers without so much as a by-your-leave and probed at it, turning it gently from side to side. "Do you feel any pain when I do this?" he asked quietly, sounding for all the world like a concerned but calm and professionally distant doctor.

Tora's mouth was open, and she simply stared at him. The same man who had expressed an almost irrational terror at the prospect of being kissed was now examining her stockinged ankle without the slightest hint of embarrassment. She could scarcely believe such brash boldness.

His eyes darted up to meet hers, interpreting her expression only partly correctly as outrage at such intimate contact without permission. "Forgive me," he said coolly. "It was necessary to examine it to determine if you had taken any damage…you are a dancer, after all, and to put weight on a sprained or broken ankle could be potentially disastrous."

Tora shut her mouth. He was right of course, but it still seemed preposterous.

That aside, she realized that she was rather strangely touched by his lightning-quick response to determine if she had taken any harm. She touched his cheek affectionately with the back of her fingers, without really thinking of what she was doing.

He stiffened, seemed paralyzed.

* * *

He had suddenly become aware of the fact that they were almost scandalously close, and his fingers were still hovering about a rather intimate area, for ankle led to calf, calf led to thigh, and thigh led to...

Erik dropped his fingers from her ankle quickly. "You took no harm?" he asked brusquely, thankful that his dressing-robe was sufficiently roomy enough to hide what was rapidly becoming a far too excited Erik the Second.

Tora shook her head. Her hand had still not left his face.

There was an odd expression on her visage, as though she were experiencing some unutterable, inexplicable urge.

She leaned in, her long hair dropping over her shoulders and brushing lightly against his hands, then his thighs as she drew even closer.

Erik stayed perfectly still, though he wanted to bolt like a deer. The tickling caress of her hair was almost insupportably erotic, though he knew she could not possibly be aware of that. To take her, right here on the floor…no. He knew she would not want that, knew she would resist, and was suddenly appalled that the thought actually increased his arousal.

Her eyes fluttered, then closed as she put her hands on both sides of his face and drew herself in to close the distance between them. Erik leaned back, trying instinctively to avoid it, and she opened her eyes, staring at him. "You really are an enigma," she said. "You complain of not being loved, but it seems you will not allow yourself to be."

"Don't torture me so," he begged. "You don't understand…"

"Let me kiss you," she whispered. Erik's breathing quickened, his heart pounding with fierce denial at the utterance of such an impossible request. Was he imagining all this, some delicious dream? He would wake up quite soon, no doubt, drenched in sweat and another far less innocent bodily fluid, as was usually the way with dreams like these. He had had his share about Christine.

He shuddered, and her lips drew agonizingly close, enough for him to feel their emanating warmth. He could sense her racing pulse, and though panic nearly choked him, he closed his eyes and felt himself about to succumb to the raging tide.

The bell rang.

Somebody was on the lake, and had tripped the hidden wire.

Erik's hands, which were hovering inches from Tora's waist, clenched themselves into fists.

Tora's eyes snapped open, and she leaned back without having succeeded in her attempt at osculation.

"What was that?" she whispered.

"Trouble," he snapped, grabbing her hands and removing them from his face. "Wait here."

"Erik…" she began, rising from the floor and following him into the parlor. Erik tore off his false nose and flung it onto a side table.

"_Wait here._"

* * *

The thundering chain of command was infallible, completely unable to be disobeyed, or so it seemed. Tora sank back to her knees in a daze.

She watched as Erik dimmed the lights, swept to the front door and manipulated it with his fingers, too fast for her to recognize the pattern. It swung open and he slid out like a shadow.

"Erik…" she whispered, her voice first a plea and then a complaint. "_Erik_…"

He had left it open a little, in his hurry. Tora moved sluggishly against the hypnotic power of suggestion which bound her to the floor, crawling painfully towards the sliver of darkness. It took seemingly ages, and her mind was in a fog. She thought she heard a faint splash, distantly, but couldn't be sure.

Her fingers clutched the carpet, and then she gathered all her strength to shake off the command, feeling it dissolve as she finally broke its ties with her mind.

Up she got to her feet, and moved to the door, pausing as she heard a commotion outside. It was voices, loud voices, echoing through the cavernous hole from across the lake.

Tora strained her ears to understand what was being said through the distortions caused by the sound bouncing off the water and the walls.

"_How dare…darog…breach my priv…!"_

"_Erik, what in All…name…under the wat…"_

"…_trick…I have…lucky for…and now…entertai…gues…"_

"_Who are you k…guest…Christine Da…?"_

"_None of yo…not…Chr…"_

"_Who…"_

"_Someone…none of…business…go before I…"_

"_Keep in mind…I…"_

Tora leaned back from the door. The voice of the other man seemed to be fading away, as though he were leaving, and she heard the water slosh, which she took to mean that Erik was coming across again.

Slowly she backed away from the door, thinking that perhaps it would be a good idea to pretend that she was still hypnotized, as she didn't know how Erik would react otherwise.

After what seemed an age, the door swung open, and she noticed the irritable look on Erik's face as he realized that he had failed to close it completely when he left. He glanced at her, and Tora attempted to look gelid, but her eyes widened in spite of herself.

He ignored her, walking past her to his bedroom, leaving a trail of wetness behind him.

Tora got to her feet, still staring. "Why on earth are you all drenched?" she demanded, dropping all pretense.

Erik stopped, and sighed, putting a hand on the doorframe while his back faced her. "You'd rather not know, my dear," he said quietly. "Thankfully nothing came of it."

Tora's mouth opened in confusion, but the door to his bedroom suddenly slammed shut behind him, like the toll of a great bell, and there was silence.

"Very well, then," she snapped to the unfeeling air, and stormed to her own bedroom, slamming her door in kind.

She stripped off the dressing-robe and flung it onto a chair, suddenly looking around the room and wanting to scream as she stared at Christine's clothes scattered all around. She gritted her teeth.

"How…" she picked up a stocking and pulled it until it stretched beyond recognition, "_dare…_" grabbed a shoe and hurled it against the wall, "he…" pulled at a delicate undergarment until it tore nearly in half, "make…" shredded at it with her nails and stomped on it, reducing it to a ruined heap, "such…a…fool…" beat at the wardrobe with another shoe, leaving small dents in the wood, "out…of…me!"

Tora collapsed on the bed, exhausted.

She heard a creak...was his door opening?

There was a soft scuffle outside her own door, a long pause, and then a clearing of a throat before the knock came, firm and light.

"Go away!" she shrieked, hurling a shoe at the door. It clonked on the wood and fell to the floor, rolling a bit.

"I…are you decent?" came the voice, sounding a bit ruffled.

"No!" she yelled. "Now clear off, or I'll…I'll…" She didn't know what she would do, if he came in. Probably lunge at him in fury, but end up falling into a tangled, ardent heap…

Tora blushed. Her embarrassment at such a ridiculous thought did wonders to cool her rage.

She sighed. "Are you still there?"

There was silence.

Tora got up from the bed, grabbing the dressing-robe and putting it on. She tied the sash around her waist and put her ear to the door, listening for any sound.

Nothing.

Slightly trepid about what she might encounter were she to open the door—more afraid of what she might let herself do than anything—she cracked it so that she could see only the barest bit of hallway.

There came a shadow blocking the light, suddenly, and Tora gasped, flinging open the door.

She blinked, attempting to calm herself. He had replaced his mask, and was wearing dry clothes. The robe was different, but it was similar in pattern and design to the one he had worn earlier.

"Hmph," Tora muttered, her pride overcoming her need to reconcile, and began to close the door, but he put his hand against it.

"Excuse me," she said, and her voice trembled. She pushed half-heartedly, but the door wouldn't budge against his hold.

His eyes glittered in the dim light, burning with some unidentifiable emotion that made the breath leave her throat.

"Tora…" he whispered.

She held her ground. "Slam your door on me without a word of explanation as to…" she began, and then he pushed the door open, and she backed away in panic.

She heard his breathing, heavy and fast, and felt herself stumble over a discarded dress. She grabbed a chair to halt her fall, and stared at him with a kind of horrified longing.

"Erik…what on earth is the matter?" she whispered.

"Even with all you've heard, all that you think you know," he said, his gaze burning her to the core, "you haven't any idea of what kind of monster Erik can be."

Tora gulped, suddenly realizing his intent. "You…you wouldn't…" she began.

He laughed, almost a dry sob. "All men," he hissed in a whisper, "even those such as myself, are driven by an indelible need. Women have no conception of it, this beast inside men, though many pride themselves otherwise. Perhaps it's time to prove it to you, to show you what kind of being you wish to associate yourself with--and grant myself some satisfaction in the process!"

Tora closed her eyes against it. Suzette's words came back to her in a rush.

_Do you remember Jolie?_

_You wouldn't enjoy it._

There was a distant, dizzy roaring in her ears.

"Please…" she whispered. "Think, Erik…" She opened her eyes.

"You wanted Erik's kiss, and you shall have it," he hissed, and his eyes were terrible. His manner said, _And more besides. _Tora felt faint.

Her mouth was dry, as though stuffed with cotton, and she couldn't speak.

_Not like this. Please…_

_Erik, Erik, not like this._

And then he halted, suddenly, and his hand clutched a table for support. His entire stance changed, from a towering inferno to something more akin to a melting snowman.

Tora watched in horror as he sank to the floor and burst into tears.

"Oh, God…don't…" she stammered, at a complete loss. She had never seen a grown man cry, much less Erik.

He gasped for breath between sobs, and pulled himself along the floor to the door. "You've seen Erik at his worst, now," he said darkly, his voice heavy with misery. "Not only monstrous, but weak as well."

Had Tora not still been recovering from the mental onslaught of very narrowly escaping being forced, she might have flown to his side in an instant. "You…you aren't weak," she said rather lamely, staying where she was.

He let out a bitter little laugh. "Attempting to nurse my bruised pride? After seeing Erik nearly succumb to man's most base and wretched instinct?"

Tora wasn't quite sure what to say to that.

"Forgive me," he said, and Tora closed her eyes.

He waited.

"It won't happen again," he said. "You have Erik's word on that."

Tora let out a deep breath, deciding to forego caution. "Tell me who the man was," she said haltingly, and Erik's head turned sharply towards her.

"What man?" he demanded.

"The man…" Tora stammered. "You were talking to someone…before…"

Erik made a noise and got to his feet. "Women and their prying," he bit out. "If you must know, he was Erik's friend in Persia, and did me a great service, but now he has become a blithering nuisance. Always poking and prying where he shouldn't…he was far too interested in the...business with Christine, and now his detective's curiosity has only been piqued more by learning that she is no longer…" He glanced at her. "No longer here," he said shortly, although it was plain he had been going to say something else, such as _no longer the object of my desires_.

Tora blushed.

"Have you forgiven me yet?" he asked, kicking his foot against the doorframe like a bored and impatient child.

"Yes," she said slowly. "I suppose."

"Very well, then," he said, and she could tell that his embarrassment about the whole affair had made him rather sullen. "I'm going to bed." He stiffened, suddenly, as though embarrassed by the mere mention of the word _bed._

Tora stared wordlessly as he fled into the hallway, and blew the air out through her lips as she heard his bedroom door shut.

She slipped to her open door and closed it slowly, looking at the lock in contemplation. A bolt of sick fear shot through her.

She wondered if trust was more important than safety, but the memory of how terrible he had looked while stalking towards her made up her mind. She slid the latch into place with a soft _snick_ and blew out the lamp, tumbling into bed and giving herself up to fitful, dreamless sleep.

* * *

**A/N: _Lapin(e) apeur(e)é _means "frightened rabbit," in reference to Erik's simile regarding Christine in the previous chapter. **

**The _Jane Eyre _allusion is referring to a scene where Jane is studying Mr. Rochester's "physiognomy" (his face, rather) and he notices her staring. He then asks her if she thinks him handsome (which he isn't), and she immediately replies, "No, sir," without thinking, as per the blunt honesty which is an integral part of her personality.**

**Just so we're clear, I adore said book myself.**


	38. Apassionata

**A/N: Sensuality ahead. Sensitive readers be warned, as always. **

**I apologize for the delay, especially to my most devoted readers, though hopefully this satisfies (along with Chapter 39, which is on the way). Lilly has been home for about a month now and, incandescently wonderful though this is, she occupies almost all of my time and energy (not to mention depriving me of much of my sleep). Also, the internet here isn't the greatest.**

* * *

Tora awoke in darkness. She panicked, briefly, and then realized that there was no way of telling the time. Was it morning or still night?

Fumbling for a match on the bedside table, she struck it and quickly lit the candle, wondering briefly if he had put electric lighting in this part of the abode.

_I will have to get him to teach me how it works._

Memory assaulted her then, and she shivered, glancing at her still-locked door. After a moment, she suddenly realized the theoretical futility of what she had done. If he had wanted to get in, he could have simply used a key. This place _was_ his, after all.

That thought gave her a slow, creeping feeling, though it brought with it a sense of relief, for he obviously hadn't followed through on such a brash impulse, if indeed he'd had any.

Slowly she rose from bed and glanced briefly (and disdainfully) at the closet. She would--there was nothing else for it--_have_ to wear Christine's things. Her own clothes were still ruined from the night before, sliding down that terrible hole. Her skin crawled at the remembrance of it, and then her stomach rumbled.

Tora's hand reached out to undo the locks and open the door, but then she deferred, remembering herself and wanting to look respectable. She certainly didn't want to stumble out into the hallway with hair mussed, clad in her nightgown--particularly after...that.

Besides, her internal clock (and her protesting belly) gave her an inkling that it _was_ morning, and so it was time to greet the day anew.

Going to the wardrobe and picking out a simple blue dress on the spur of the moment, she trudged wearily into the bath-room to freshen up.

* * *

There was a creak of hinges, a light footstep. Erik continued turning the bacon in the pan and pretended not to notice, even when the footsteps sounded close behind him.

There was silence, and Erik thought he might go mad with it. He winced as a tiny glob of grease spat out of the pan and landed squarely on the back of his hand.

"Content to stare at my back and say no word?" he queried lightly, shaking his hand a little.

There was still silence, although he heard the nervous shift of feet from side to side.

"You might as well forget about what happened last night," he said dismissively. "I told you it wouldn't happen again."

"You also said another time that you didn't always keep your word," said the small voice behind him.

Erik flinched. He said nothing.

The bacon was done, six pieces of it. He transferred those to a large plate and turned around, suddenly hissing sharply between his teeth.

She stepped backward instinctively, a vision of periwinkle loveliness. The dress didn't quite fit her properly, however—it sagged just a bit on a frame slightly shorter than Christine's, and beyond that, he wasn't quite sure the color suited her exactly. He would have to rectify that awkward situation of Tora being forced to wear clothes not meant for her, and quickly.

"If you wish," he said, setting the plate in the middle of the table next to the bread, "I will buy you cl--"

Tora interrupted him. "I'm going back today," she said.

Erik stiffened. "Very well," he said smoothly, and sat himself at the end of the table, picking up only a small piece of bread and buttering it.

He glanced at her. She seemed to be struggling with something. "I…if I come down again…I can bring my own clothes," she said half-heartedly. "You don't have to..."

"_Are_ you going to come back down again?" he inquired, stifling his own surge of negative emotion which threatened to spill forth at any moment.

She was very still. Then she took a piece of bacon and put it on the small plate in front of her. "Yes," she said abruptly, and then blushed and began furiously buttering a piece of bread.

Her hair, damp and just beginning to curl limply, was swept behind her like a long, dark shroud. A mass of it fell over one shoulder, and he found himself longing to bury his face in it, to inhale the rich, deep scent of it, all freshly clean.

She might have allowed that, before. He was certain she wouldn't allow it now.

Abruptly he got up from the table and took the piece of bread into his bedroom with him, feeling her puzzled eyes follow him out of the kitchen.

Jamming the bread into his mouth and swallowing it in one irritated gulp when he sat down at the organ--he never let anyone watch him eat, if he could help it--he looked over a sheet of recently written music and attempted to concentrate studiously.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw her standing in the door, and gritted his teeth. She was plaguing him—on the other hand, he felt somewhat gratified that she had followed. Perhaps too gratified.

"Your cooking surprised me at first," said Tora, "what with your being male, but then I realized that you've had to cook for yourself for years, so naturally you would have gotten good at it."

It took Erik a moment to realize that she was purposely giving him the same sort of chauvinistically twisted compliment he had given her the night before. Sarcastic little beast.

"Was that a veiled jab, perchance?" he queried, keeping his eyes on his music to give her the impression of being generally ignored.

"Perhaps," she replied, and she grew suddenly quiet. Erik glanced up to see her staring dizzily at the curtains which hid the sleeping-coffin.

"It's quite comfortable, you know," he said with a dark bit of caustic humor. "You should try it."

Tora let out a faint shriek, quickly covering her mouth. She tottered a little and held onto the doorjamb for support. "You," she said between gritted teeth, "are impossible. You _know_ I hate coffins." The very mention of the word seemed to make her sick.

Erik grinned horribly—he was wearing the mask that showed his mouth, a habit he'd grown rather fond of in recent days—and Tora's cheek twitched.

He remembered something very intriguing, all of a sudden, and was suddenly apprised of a way to gain nearness to that seductively tumbling hair. "Come here," he said, and she hesitated, though she put one foot forward.

"You said once you wanted to learn to play," he said, gesturing toward the piano that sat next to the organ. "Organ is too complex for now, I daresay, but perhaps today I am inclined to give you a piano lesson."

Immediately he saw her tension and distrust dissipate, giving way to uncontrollable curiosity. _Yes, yes…come closer, cherie, you want to sit down at the bench and put your hands on the keys, and hear the notes come forth…that's it, move closer._

Her eyes were locked on the piano, and he rose from the organ bench so that he might stand next to it. She shot a glance at him, laced with suspicion, and then, apparently fighting an inner battle, finally sat down and stared at the keys.

"I wouldn't know how to even begin," she said. "I haven't any experience in even the most basic…"

"Middle C," he said, touching the key. She leaned backward a bit to avoid his arm—was it from fear or mere politeness? He couldn't be certain.

Now, the plunge. He must be mad to do this, but his reason had fled and all that remained was the scathing need to be close to her, to breathe her scent without frightening her away.

"Copy me," he said, coming around behind her. Putting an arm out, he leaned over and did the scale, slowly. "Thumb under middle finger going up, middle finger over thumb going down, that's the secret to the scale," he murmured, his mouth close to her ear, and she shivered noticeably, although she didn't recoil or move away.

Awkwardly she put her right hand on the keys where his hand had been and slowly, clunkily tried to copy his graceful, fluid movement. Erik winced, but was rather preoccupied with the intoxicating smell of her skin mixed with that of her still-damp hair. Torturous heaven, this.

"The thumb, the thumb," he bit out, reaching his hand out again and demonstrating while headily inhaling the sweet aroma. "It's very simple, you know…"

"You needn't be so impatient with me," she said, sounding slightly hurt. "I haven't _your_ musical prowess, by any means…"

"Thumb, forefinger, middle finger, thumb, and then the remaining four fingers in order," he said. "The thumb crosses underneath going up. Then you go backwards--little finger, ring finger, middle finger, forefinger, thumb--then the middle finger crosses over, and you finish with the forefinger and thumb. Try again."

She sighed, and did it over, this time doing a little better. He supposed this absolute travesty at piano playing was to be expected, as she was a beginner, but really, this was child's play!

Forcing down his irritation at the awkward notes erupting from the elegant instrument, he instead imagined putting his hands all over her, running them down her hair and over her slim waist, splaying themselves in the curvature of her spine, his fingers trailing over her succulent young breasts and thighs...

He let out an involuntary groan, and Tora stopped, jerking a little. "Am I really that bad?" she asked, and Erik shoved his fist in his mouth to choke back a scream of ironic laughter.

"You'll improve," he said stiffly, and then, compelled by his hunger, did something a little more daring.

He covered her hand with his own and slowly, very slowly manipulated her fingers so as to produce the correct notes and positioning. He absently hummed the scale as it progressed, and he thought he heard Tora sigh a little.

Her hand was at first rigid and taut beneath his own, fraught with tension, but gradually yielded to softness, allowing itself to be guided. He felt a little thrill of exultation, and very cautiously put his other hand on her shoulder, trying to be as nonchalant as possible, as though he were inadvertently needing a place to lean his weight while parading her fingers beneath his own.

She stiffened again, but—oh, joy of joys!—relaxed visibly within no more than half a minute. In fact, she had begun leaning backwards, just a little, almost so that her back was molded to his front, and Erik thought he might die from the heady thrum of pleasure coursing through his veins.

"Good," he said in a bit of a gasp, "you're getting better. Now try it without me."

She seemed almost disappointed when he withdrew his hand, and Erik felt a jolt of satisfaction. He was frightened to allow himself to hope for anything, but there had been so many things worthy of hope this morning.

She muttered it to herself. "Thumb under middle finger…middle finger over thumb…"

* * *

Tora felt a bit dizzy. His hand was not at all cold when it covered hers; on the contrary, it was so uncharacteristically warm it felt nearly feverish. His other hand, the hand on her shoulder, was the same, burning her to her core, where she felt herself pulsating with an answering heat. There was an inexplicable throbbing sensation between her legs when she leaned back, close to touching him, and felt the emanating warmth from his body.

It should have frightened her, she supposed, this obvious ardor, but rather than feeling threatened by it, as she had the night before, she felt as though she wanted to envelop herself in it, to be caught up in the tide and tossed about on the waves. Last night had been different—he hadn't cared, had only wanted to prove a brutish point while satisfying his own desires, but now he didn't even seem entirely aware of what he was doing. It was splendidly torturous, the way he teased her without realizing it. Tora felt as though she were balancing on the edge of a knife, _en pointe._

Her hand, now free of his, was beginning to develop a little sheen of sweat as she endeavored to perform the right-handed Middle C scale without error or clumsiness. His other hand was still resting upon her shoulder, beginning to feel heavy as well as hot, and she felt his breath all over her hair.

He expected her to learn and not make mistakes when she was thus distracted? _He is madder than I thought…or more ignorant,_ she thought frantically, leaning back just a little more so that her shoulders were now touching his torso. His heart, she could feel, pumped like a wild bird in his chest, its frenzied pounding echoing through her body like the strains of a drumbeat from Hades.

_He could take me now_, she realized with a shiver. _It would be easy for him, so close, so powerful. But he doesn't do it. Is it because he gave his word, or is it because he is afraid? Or is it both, perhaps combined with some lingering respect for my virtue?_

His thighs were pressed against the bench, against her back. They were molded now, one heartbeat joining with the other to form a frenetic duet of pulsation.

Tora's fingers slipped and inadvertently made a mistake, and Erik didn't correct her. She could feel his breathing, fast and heavy, and she felt the fingers of the hand on her shoulder creep over to grasp a handful of her hair to slide it between them.

"So beautiful," she heard him whisper. "Beautiful as a dark night with a full moon, this pale skin, this chestnut hair…"

Tora felt an erotic shiver from her neck to her thighs, and she experienced the rather dichotomic urge of wanting to bolt from the room to escape and wanting to be swept up in his long grasp.

She reached behind her with her left hand and touched his fingers in her hair, still very badly playing the scale with her right.

"I was a little browned when I came back, from being on the ship," she said softly, bringing his hand to rest on her cheek. "But staying inside nearly the whole time since has made me quite white again." _Rather like you,_ she thought, but didn't say it.

Feeling as though she weren't quite inside of her own body, she kissed the palm of his hand, and heard him hiss between his teeth again.

She suddenly realized she was testing him, in a way, and thought she'd better stop before he lifted her from the bench and threw her into the coffin. It wouldn't fit both of them, at any rate...

In spite of herself, Tora giggled, forgetting her morbid terror of coffins and of Erik's prodigious strength, and she felt him stiffen.

"Why are you laughing?" he asked, sounding slightly irritable.

"Oh, I was thinking…no, never mind what I was thinking," Tora said, suddenly performing a flawless right-hand scale.

"I did it!" she exclaimed, feeling a bit flustered, and she heard Erik give a strained chuckle.

"Now _you're_ laughing," she said sullenly, and turned around to look at him. "Show me the left hand," she demanded.

There was a kind of tense quiet in the room for a moment, as though the very air were undulating in rhythm with their pulses, and then Erik said, "Perhaps another day."

"No. Today," said Tora, and then, on a thoughtless impulse, "I won't go back until next Thursday if you show me."

Erik seemed a bit taken aback. "I wouldn't want you to jeopardize your dancing career by willfully skipping rehearsal…" he began half-heartedly, though she thought she detected some wild note of hope in his voice that she was being serious.

"I'm visiting a sick relative in Rouen," said Tora. "Or at least that's what I told Suzette to say…I'd better tell her I'm not dead, though, or she might worry." She turned back to the keys. "Show me," she said, wiggling her left hand.

Erik slowly reached over and demonstrated. It was the same scale, more or less, but it went down from Middle C instead of up. "This one may take you some time," he said casually. "The left hand requires much more discipline and control than the right."

"But you're left-handed," said Tora, waiting until he had lifted his fingers from the piano and then clunking out the scale with her own stubborn left hand—which, true to his word, was far harder to play with than her dominant right.

Erik moved back a little. "Perceptive of you to notice," he said with a bit of surprise. "Yes, I am, but that isn't the point, since you are obviously right-handed..."

"I need help," said Tora suddenly, out of both truth and coyness. "Could you…" She looked at his hand, and then at him, and saw a flush on the visible skin. Wordlessly he put her hand beneath his own again, this time the left, and she was suddenly struck by the guilty symbolism of it, her hand moving beneath his in a steady rhythm…

She blushed too, and her fingers fumbled even under the tutelage of his own. He made an angry noise in his throat, and she quickly recovered.

"Perhaps we really should do this another day," she said. "I can't...I can't concentrate."

He said nothing, but she heard his breathing and felt the wild bird in his chest—and then she realized with a jolt what that hard, uncomfortable _thing_ pressed against her lower back was. She let out a faint, unintelligible whimper and inched forward again, trying not to think about it.

It was impossible. His presence suddenly seemed ponderous, as though she were in a great black cage, and she stared at the ebony and ivory bars of her prison as her fingers went inexorably up and down the white keys in a monophonic repeat.

But it wasn't really the keys which held her prisoner, it was the man behind her. The piano was only an instrument of torture, not the mind controlling it. She wondered vaguely if this had all been on purpose, and tried not to think about the disturbing implications of that theory.

That was impossible, too.

"I can't," she gasped, abruptly pushing back the bench and getting to her feet in one swift movement. Erik gave an involuntary grunt as the bench knocked against his knees.

"I…" She put a hand to her forehead, trying to steady herself. "You were right. Some other day."

"But you _are_ going to stay until Thursday," he said, and it hung in the air like a question awaiting confirmation, rather than a bald statement. "You _said_…" He sounded like a child, all of a sudden.

Tora felt very foolish. "Yes, yes, I promised I would," she said, mentally cursing herself. She turned to go, but felt his hand grab her arm. She didn't look at him.

"Tora…" he muttered. "Give Erik something…please. Some sign…some acknowledgement. Do we really have…an understanding…or is it mere play-acting on your part?"

She shivered. "I'm not play-acting," she said. "God forbid I should be so callous as that. But…I'm frightened."

He let go of her arm. "Of me," he said, and his voice was low and sullen.

"I don't know," Tora cried, turning a little. "I don't know whether to be afraid of you or not."

"One might say it is wise," he said softly, "to fear Erik…but if that is so, then he would prefer you to be foolish, at least in that regard."

Tora laughed in spite of herself. "Dear Erik," she sighed, turning and wrapping her arms around him on impulse, trying not to feel sick with unease. She rested her head on his chest, feeling the thundering of his heartbeat pounding like a roaring ocean wave in her ears.

His arms were stiff, awkward. They were splayed out to the sides, his hands hovering and shaking but not touching her, unsure of what to do.

"It's all right, you know," Tora murmured, feeling a little surge of endearing pity. "I suppose no one's ever embraced you besides me."

Erik took a long, shuddering breath.

"There are scars on my back from a whip," he said. "And on my left calf there is the mark from a knife-wound. Many signs of hate I carry with me, but none of love or kindness."

Tora wasn't quite sure what to say. She wanted to see those scars, to run her fingers and lips over them so that he would forget that they had ever existed, but she wasn't about to let him know that. Not yet, at any rate.

His fingers gingerly brushed against her clothing, just the barest possible caress. It felt as though butterflies were walking on her skin.

She felt strained, poised as though about to jump into the sea from a high cliff, dared by the taunting of friends but held by the voice of reason.

In one fairly unspectacular moment, she went up on her tiptoes and pressed her mouth gently to his, feeling the dry clamminess of his skin against her lips, thin but malleable. He smelled like sweat and the bindings of old books, musty and almost bitter.

No chorus sang. No Vesuvius erupted. There was simply the kiss, and the long, lingering silence.

* * *

**A/N: And now, a confession. **

**There is a certain Buffy the Vampire Slayer fic entitled **_**Black Satin Voices**_** which inspired the general idea of the piano-lesson scene (although the one contained in **_**that**_** fic would be enough to make a courtesan blush; mine is relatively tame in comparison). I first read the fic over five years ago but that scene stuck in the back of my head, as those types of scenes are apt to do; however, I didn't fully realize just how many unconscious little similarities my scene had to the one in **_**BSV**_** (i.e. the whole putting-his-hand-over-her-hand-to-guide-it and whatnot) until I revisited it quite recently. So I felt honor-bound to give the fantastic Eurydice11**** credit where credit was due.**

**Kind of great, isn't it, how we almost unconsciously assimilate ideas as writers as we go along and evolve? It's both a sad and wonderful truth, but if we didn't, a lot of us (i.e. Yours Truly) wouldn't quite be able to muster up the creativity or courage to write anything beyond "The." :-D Of course, it's important to make a distinction between unconscious assimilation/adaptation and plagiarism, which has nothing to do with the former--that practice is entirely intentional and utterly abhorrent, and I wouldn't be caught dead trying to pass someone else's work off as my own. This is why whenever I become aware of the fact that I have used an idea from another author I've read, even if that idea has evolved and blended into my own form and style, I always try to acknowledge them in some way.**


	39. The Foibles of Love

**A/N: This chapter officially breaks the 100,000 word barrier and then some. I never dreamed it would get this immense! **

**At any rate, here's a pertinent point on a part of the plot: the term "molest" did not always carry a purely sexual connotation. In the old days, it usually meant "to attack," in a general sort of way, as in a mugging or a robbery, and in some contexts it even meant something as nonviolent as "bother." (Even now, the verb "molestar" in Spanish means just that—"to bother or annoy.") At any rate, the term's utilization in this chapter refers to "attack," particularly of the mugging variety.**

**And I am sorry for the long delay. This chapter ended up being a lot more detailed and drawn-out (and needing much more revision) than I had originally planned. Enjoy!**

* * *

Morning gleamed off the roof of the Garnier, bright as a new sou.

Suzette glanced at the clock. It was nearing eight. _Where are you?_

She was just getting her fellow dancer Anne to tie her corset when Tora came skipping into the ballet dormitory, smiling. She spun a little on the slippery floor, sliding past Suzette.

"Tora!" gasped Suzette, glad simply to see her alive. "One last tug, Anne," she said, wincing a bit.

"There, done," said Anne, her fingers falling absently from the ties as she snuck a glance at the giddy girl dancing weirdly around the room.

"_Merci_," said Suzette. Her eyebrows raised. "Now what is all this fanfare, Margot?" she asked Tora, using her stage name to convey the serious and immediate need for explanation.

Tora smiled and flopped onto her bed, making lazy pointes with her feet in the air.

"And what on earth are you wearing?" Suzette demanded. "That dress doesn't fit you at all."

Tora glanced around at the swarming girls, and beckoned Suzette to come over, which she did at once.

"Very well, out with it," Suzette exclaimed in a whisper. "You _bedded _him, didn't you?"

Tora glared.

"Of _course_ I didn't do _that, _Suzette! Just because I'm a dancer doesn't make me the Whore of Babylon—"

"I was only wondering," Suzette mumbled, a little taken aback. "You came in here all…glowing."

"_Cherie_, despite the fact that I used to be quite full of my own fancies about it, I've _spoken_ to girls who've just done _that_ for the first time," said Tora with a red face, "and they usually aren't glowing. They walk rather funnily for a day or two, and they usually wear a painful grimace when they dance."

"Well, I know _that_," snapped Suzette, "but I wasn't sure if you'd already…you know...with someone else, perhaps..."

"You thought I…oh, _mon Dieu,_ I would have _told_ you if I had!" Tora bit out indignantly. "Gracious! Here you are thinking I've probably played the village harlot with Patrick, let alone Erik, and I've never even actually laid eyes on a man's…"

"Very well, you needn't go on," said Suzette, looking miffed. "But you have, you know."

Tora flushed. How could Suzette possibly know about that dream? Had she told her and forgotten? "What do you…"

"We _all_ did, Tora," said Suzette, rolling her eyes. "Remember? The drawing Lise tore from one of her father's medical books and passed around four years ago?"

"Oh," said Tora, giggling a little. "That."

"Goose," said Suzette, shoving her so that she nearly fell off the bed. Tora snorted and shoved her back.

"So," came the nonchalant query, "…what _did _you do?"

"I don't see why I should tell you," said Tora. "You've done nothing but poke fun and make remarks so far."

"I shan't anymore, I promise," Suzette vowed quickly.

Tora tossed her hair, twisting it into a knot at the back of her neck. "Hmph."

"Fine," said Suzette, feigning hurt. "Keep your _liaison_ to yourself, then. I suppose we needn't all know about your torrid little love affair with the Op…"

"Suzette!" gasped Tora, clapping a hand over her friend's mouth. "Have you gone completely mad? There are _girls _in here, you know…it's not as though we were by ourselves…"

"I'm sure I don't know what came over me," Suzette said smoothly, after Tora had removed her hand from her mouth.

Tora glared at her. "Minx."

"Tell me," Suzette warned. "Or I'll let everybody know who you're setting your cap at."

"It's the stage-hand!" squealed Sophie, running by to catch a thrown slipper. "Poirot, or whatever his name is…"

"It most certainly is _not _he," snapped Tora. "And his name is _Patrick_…oh, never mind that_..._Sophie, _when_ will you learn your manners? Ignorant little sparrow…"

"You keep using that epithet to describe _les rats_," said Suzette with a grin. "Somehow I don't think you really mean it."

"I do so," huffed Tora.

"Oh, come, now," rejoined Suzette. "In your heart of hearts, you're just as terribly fond of the little chits as I am. Even though it smarts to admit it," she added with a grimace.

Tora shrugged. "Maybe so," she said, rolling her eyes as Sophie tripped over her ballet laces. "Are you all right, _petite?_" she asked in a rather motherly fashion, not quite realizing it.

"_Oui, oui, _I am all right," Sophie replied breathlessly, sliding out of the room awkwardly.

"Told you so," said Suzette.

"Boil your head," said Tora sullenly.

"_Tell me what went on!_" demanded Suzette, beginning to look more than a little out of sorts.

"Suzette," said Tora. "I don't know the proper way to explain this—Erik…is mine. He's private. Like some secret corner of my soul that I don't dare and don't want to reveal to anybody else."

"You certainly revealed enough before," snapped Suzette. "Why the sudden hush?"

Tora pushed back a stray curl and fiddled with it. "Never mind," she said. "I'd simply rather not talk about it at the moment. What happened, it was…good. Frightening, but good. It's almost...oh, it sounds silly, but it's almost sacred to me now."

Suzette laughed. "Oh, please_._"

"You know," snapped Tora, "ever since I got back from America, you've been much ruder than you ever were before. I don't know if you've noticed. Does it have something to do with Carolus?"

Suzette's face turned red. "No."

"Oh, come off it, Suzette. What happened with him changed you, didn't it? You grew harder."

Her friend looked away. "Awfully presumptuous this morning, aren't you."

Tora grimaced. "Suzette, you don't understand—I used to feel like I could tell you everything. But I can't really, not anymore. I never realized it before, but we're no longer girls sharing secrets—we're women with secrets of our own. You have yours—and I have mine."

"Fine," said Suzette, with a rather black look on her face. "If that's the way you want it."

"I don't, I don't," said Tora quickly, grasping her friend's arm earnestly. "But that moment…how can I make you see? It was a private moment. It's almost unutterable. I feel as though if I talk about it, it will have lost some of its power, some of its purity."

Suzette sighed. "I suppose I can respect that, as ridiculous as it seems. Only tell me this, _cherie…_did you kiss him?"

Tora blushed. "That _was_ the moment," she whispered. "That was all. And then he gave this great sigh and…" She looked abruptly at Suzette. "There I go, talking about it when I swore up and down I wouldn't," she muttered in embarrassment.

Suzette blinked, slowly. "And what?" she asked, her eyes rather eager.

"Oh…nothing," said Tora. "There were a few awkward moments, and then we…we talked."

_Yes, be scant on details,_ she thought. _The scanter, the better._

Suzette looked bored. "That was all?" she asked. "One kiss, and then you _talked?_"

"I had made a promise, which...changed a bit. Suzette, I'm tired," Tora said. "Perhaps I'll tell you more after I take a nap."

"If you're tired, it's your own bloody fault for staying out all night," said Suzette. "Besides, we have rehearsal in thirty minutes."

"Mme. Gervais really expects us to rehearse so soon on the day after a masqued ball?" groaned Tora. "I thought she might decide to defer…"

"No such luck," Suzette said resignedly. "The slave-driver! Then again, _I _didn't really stay up all that late…"

Tora shoved her. "Prissy. Besides, I didn't stay up all night…I slept a bit."

"Tight-lip," Suzette shot back. "I _wish_ you would tell me more of what went on…"

"Later," said Tora. "Much later."

"I'll hold you to that," rejoined Suzette, and commenced braiding her long, straight hair in front of the mirror.

* * *

He got an odd little thrill, watching her go about her daily routine as he slipped silently through the shadows from room to room, hiding behind pillars, in dark corners, completely swathed in black. Was it merely his imagination, or did she seem a bit dreamier than usual? Was she humming to herself in that darling little voice of hers, sweet and unpracticed, soft and unsure, but in its mediocrity more beautiful to his ears than even the most brilliant diva's dulcet soaring tones?

He could not stay away from her. It was as though she carried a perfume which commanded him with its intoxicating scent, hypnotizing him as though she were a rare flower, or a shining jewel.

She sensed his presence; that much he could discern. She would look up, at times, with an odd expression on her face, and it was then that he would stiffen and remain perfectly still so as not to be detected.

How he longed to pull her behind a set piece or into a shadowy hall and bury his face once more in her tumbling hair, to feel her supple, lithe body pressed against his own...it was as though he were bewitched. More than anything, however, he could not erase the feel of her soft, tender mouth, and God help him, he wanted it again. He wanted to slip into that dreamland of her kiss once more, better even than the surreal plane of existence upon which he had been floating all morning and into the afternoon. He wanted a thousand more kisses exactly like it, even as awkward and tentative as it had been, and then he wanted to worship her with song upon song.

The evening seemed dreadfully far away. But he would wait. He had become adept at drawing out his torturous existence by waiting.

* * *

Dusk settled, like a cool satin blanket. Tora stretched her sore legs a bit, wrapped a shawl around her shoulders, and waited in the gathering dark.

_Mme. Gervais really is a slave driver,_ she thought. _I wish I'd kept—_

A hand descended on her arm, making her gasp in fright. But when she realized who the fingers belonged to, she relaxed.

"Oh," she said. "It's you."

"Me," agreed the voice, sounding somewhat disgruntled.

"You shouldn't be here, you know," she said. "I'm…waiting for someone."

"The Opera Ghost?" he asked, and Tora whirled around, her eyes wide.

"Keep that to yourself," she said. "If you value your life, please keep it to yourself. Don't make me explain further."

"So it's true," he said. "It really was him, at the Masque."

Tora turned away, her silence a consent. "I'm sorry about that. I didn't quite plan for it to happen that way…going off with him like that and leaving you all alone."

He snorted. "I'm sure."

"Do you think I would be so callous as to actually _plan_ to desert you in the middle of the room?" she demanded.

"Why not?" he asked. "You might have thought it was the surest way to convince me that you thought no more of me than you would a dog's excrement on your shoe."

"Patrick," she said, "I told you I was glad you were with me."

"Until you ran off with Red Death."

"Patrick…" she whispered, starting to get desperate—the time was almost near—"be quiet. And go away. I don't say that to be cruel, I say it because I won't be responsible for what happens to you if you don't."

"Is he really so controlling as all that?" queried Patrick incredulously. "Dear God, the way you talk, it's as if you're afraid for both our lives."

"Yours, at least," said Tora. "Please. Go."

"No," he said. "Is he coming? I want to talk to him, if he is."

Tora went white. "Oh, God."

He looked at her face. "Does it really upset you that much?" he asked in a slightly different tone. "The idea of him and I meeting?"

"Patrick," she whispered. "I can assure you, I am in no danger. You, however, will be if you stay here a moment longer."

"Delude yourself, then," he said. "If you want to carry on with this ridiculousness, I'll take my leave of you, especially since you seem so anxious to be rid of my company." He turned on his heel and stomped back into the Opera House.

Tora sighed in relief.

"So," said another voice, sliding abruptly behind her like the creep of oil down her back. "Not entirely quit of the Irish boy, I see."

Tora jumped, her hand to her heart. "Never," she said, "do that…again."

"So he wishes to speak to me, does he?" chuckled the long, dark shadow, and Tora realized with a sinking feeling that Erik obviously understood English, if he didn't in fact speak it—although it was more than likely that he did. "Perhaps that can be arranged."

"Don't you dare," she snapped. "He's not a threat to you, you know…it's not as though he's going to go to the police. He doesn't even know anything about you, other than the fact that everyone's had their share of startles and frights because of your ghostly influence." She was shivering from the cool night air.

A long arm wrapped around her and pulled her inside his cape. She nestled her head against the bony chest and breathed in his scent. All her anger and frustration seemed to melt away at once.

"I love you," she whispered. "In spite of myself. It's unstoppable."

She felt his shuddering breath, and thought she heard her name upon it, as soft and nearly intangible as a tickling breeze.

They were hidden by a pillar, concealed in the gathering dark. "Kiss me," she said impulsively, caught up by the delicious scandalousness of it all, and this time he obliged without question.

It was awkward and strange, as it had been before. But there was an odd dreamy warmth in her abdomen as he did so, and a sharp jolt of frightened excitement when she felt _It_ pressed against her. Solid heat, hard flesh through clothing, but yet shadowy and unknowable.

Did she _want_ to know?

"Yes," she groaned aloud, without thinking, and he drew back, his unease radiating through his stiffened shoulders.

"You're a wanton little thing, aren't you," he remarked, breathing rather heavily, and Tora suddenly wanted the earth to open and swallow her up.

She closed her eyes and decided to…what was that English slang phrase…roll with the punch. "How would you prefer me?" she asked, and she really was genuinely curious. "Wanton or aloof?"

He cleared his throat and stepped back from where he had her cornered against the pillar. "What exactly did you have planned for this evening?" he asked. "A carriage ride?"

Tora blushed at his first question. She knew he didn't intend it that way, but…"I suppose," she said. "If you want to."

"This was your idea, little bird," he said smoothly, and that fluid, lissom voice sent sensual shivers down her back. She wanted to kiss him again, but he hadn't answered her question of how he would prefer her, and she was afraid of appearing too eager.

It baffled her, in a way, why she wanted him so badly. It really turned all the laws of the universe upside down, how she could be so powerfully attracted to such a…well, _not very good-looking man_ was putting it more than mildly.

But she already knew. There were things other than personal appearance that could draw you to a man. In Erik's case, there was his silken, sliding, powerful voice, the graceful and sensuous way he moved, and his odd, tender gestures…even his unpredictable and irascible temperament was not without its strange charms.

_Like a cobra,_ she thought. _Weaving back and forth, putting me under his sorcery with his eyes._

"Has your soul flown to Hades, leaving but an empty shell?" he demanded. "Why are you staring at me in that catatonic fashion?"

Tora blinked, snapping out of her reverie. "Thinking," she said. "About you." She started walking, her arms folded against the chill. She indeed felt as though a spell had just been rudely broken.

He caught up to her with a few steps; his stride was long, even when it was easy and careless.

"You might at least take my arm," he said sullenly. "Unless you're ashamed to be seen with such a ghastly-looking suitor."

Tora slid her arm into the crook of his elbow. She nonchalantly brushed her fingers against his thin, wiry bicep before letting her hand drape across his forearm, allowing herself a little shiver of pleasure at the absent touch, and smiled a little. "Why should I be? You're mine, aren't you?" The words came out before she really thought about them, and she mentally kicked herself.

He was silent for a moment, almost painfully silent. "Tora," he said, "Erik could take you before a priest, right now, and then you would be his, and he would be yours. Legally, eternally."

Tora's cheeks pinched. "Not yet," she said. "Too fast. Besides…I'd rather it was something planned, instead of spur-of-the-moment. Not that the idea of practically eloping doesn't have its charms."

"I can never tell when you're being serious," he said. "Are you bantering with me?"

"Maybe," she replied. "But in all seriousness…I really don't think I'm…ready."

He stiffened again, and she wondered if he had mistaken her meaning for something like _I haven't yet reconciled myself enough to your hideousness to give myself to you_—which couldn't be farther from the truth, she thought with a quick, burning flush_._ But she knew of no way to debunk such a misinterpretation, if indeed there was one, without sounding condescending or presumptuous—or going into risqué territory that she wasn't quite prepared to bring up.

"Tora," he said, "it might be wise. If you go on kissing Erik, something…is bound to happen beyond his control. Besides, you might as well be promised to him anyway, after..."

Wanting to bark at him to stop referring to himself in the third person, but fighting off the urge, Tora pointed. "Look, a hansom cab," she said lamely. "Do you want to…?"

His eyes reflected from a gas-lamp's light, and they glittered oddly. "You've become quite adept at changing the subject, my dear."

Tora blushed and lowered her eyes.

Erik handed the driver some money when they reached the cab. "The Bois de Boulogne," he said. "We fancy walking amongst the trees."

The driver's nose turned red, though he looked as though he were fighting back a grin. "The Bois de Boulogne it is, _monsieur,_" he said, shooting a glance at Tora that she did not at all like.

"You needn't have said anything more than our destination," she managed to say to Erik after they had climbed into the cab. "_We fancy walking amongst the trees._ The look he gave me, he thinks I'm some sort of well-dressed lady of the evening, and you my wealthy…client."

Erik chuckled.

"You're infuriating," Tora said, and stared out the window, sitting as far from him as she could manage.

"Everyone knows what happens in the Bois after dark," she said at last. "The ill-repute ooze out from the cracks of society and glow like fireflies, showing off their…wares. And there are others with more nefarious mischief on their minds."

"In places, it is quiet," he said. "Scenic, too. Besides, should any trouble erupt, I've come prepared."

Tora shot a glance at him. "What do you mean…_prepared?_" she asked suspiciously. "Do you carry a pistol with you?"

Erik shifted back his coat, giving her a flash of a long, catgut-like string looped to his belt.

"What is _that?_" she asked incredulously, suddenly fearing she knew the answer.

"My magic lasso," he said with a grim smile.

Tora stared at it for a few moments, mulling it over. "Quiet and quick, I would imagine," she said. "Not loud and attention-drawing like a gunshot."

"Precisely," he said, sounding faintly surprised at her glib statement, and turned to look out his own window.

"Erik…" she began, and then stopped, not sure if she wanted to continue. "You've…used it quite a lot, haven't you."

He was silent.

"Erik, it's all right. I know now, remember? I've reconciled myself to the fact."

He spoke in a voice muffled by his chin-supporting hand. "Have you really? Or would you only like to believe you have?"

It was Tora's turn to be silent. She didn't know what to say, and looked out the window again at the dark shapes passing by as the hansom jostled and bounced.

* * *

_He was inexplicably beautiful to watch, in an odd way. Perhaps poetic would have been a better term._

_His lean, ropy muscles rolled and shifted against his bones as he dodged the sweep of the burly man's club, almost effortlessly. Neither of them wore shirts; this was an exhibition, and in Erik's case, the exhibition was not for beauty's sake. Someone enjoyed seeing how ugly he was to everyone else, and wanted to have the full pleasure of partaking in the visual feast._

_The big man looked desperate, but also convinced that he would win, sooner or later. After all, he outweighed his skeletal opponent by at least a hundred and fifty pounds._

_That was his mistake, thinking that size could triumph over speed._

_The man moved to swing his club again, and there was a sharp _whizz _of air, like an angry hornet's nest after being smashed to smithereens._

_The club dropped from the large man's hand. His face turned red, then purple, and then almost black._

_Long, graceful hands tightened around the instrument of death, gave it a final tug. The expression on Erik's face was almost unfathomable—it was, at once, that of a man who, quite frankly, could care less—but at the same time, there was a kind of oddly satisfied little smile, as though he were a sculptor who had just put the final touches to his great work of art. And then there was a strange, bitter little twist to his mouth as he let his opponent drop to the ground and removed the exotic garrote._

_Across the dry and dusty courtyard, a young woman clapped her hands in glee and gave a lovely, shimmering laugh. She was extremely well-dressed, in a foreign fashion, and her face—what could be seen of it over the veil—was plump, her skin a dusky ochre, her eyes large and dark, eyebrows thick and black as midnight. She was speaking strange words in a strange language, but somehow Tora could understand her just the same. _

"_Wonderful!" the young woman lilted. "Now…teach me." _

* * *

"Are you all right?" asked Erik with a slightly derisive tone. "You started from sleep as if the Devil himself had woken you."

Tora's eyes darted around the cab, feeling unreal. It was cold and stifling, where a moment ago it had been almost unbearably hot and windy. _In my dream._

"I didn't even realize I was sleepy," she said, trying to sound careless, as though she hadn't just experienced the most vivid, real nightmare of her life.

"We're here," he said succinctly, and offered his hand to her as the cab stopped. She took it—rather gingerly—and the manner in which she did so did not seem to entirely escape his notice.

They disembarked, and the carriage drove off, the horses' feet clattering on the cobblestones.

"I had a dream that you were in Persia," said Tora, her voice low. "You killed a man."

Erik glanced at her in surprise, but said nothing.

"There was…a woman…who wanted you to teach her how."

Now he really looked at her, as though he couldn't quite believe she was standing there.

"There isn't any way on earth you could have known about that," he said. "Unless…"

Tora opened her mouth to say something, but he cut her off, his face wearing a black look as he dropped her hand. "You've been talking to _him,_ haven't you. My friend the daroga."

Now Tora was confused. "Who on earth is that?" And then it hit her. "That man…the one who looks so odd, who always asks everybody questions and wears a funny hat. That is your friend from Persia?"

It was Erik's turn to be confused. "You haven't spoken to him?"

"Never," she said.

He peered at her face, trying to gauge if she was lying. "There isn't any other way you could have known about the sultana. There isn't."

"I _didn't_ know," she said, feeling sick and strange. "I didn't. I thought it all might have been my imagination, only it was so real! And then you said—" She felt embarrassing tears well up in her eyes, and saw his instant discomfort.

"Very well, you needn't weep," he said gruffly, taking a handkerchief out of his pocket and dabbing at her eyes. She felt humiliated, and swatted his hand away, though she took the handkerchief.

He seemed slightly hurt by this gesture, and she took his arm quickly. "I'm sorry," she said. "It's only that crying over something so silly rather embarrasses me. And I was offended that you didn't believe me, although I can understand why you mightn't."

"You _must _have talked to the daroga," he said. "You simply don't remember it."

"Erik," she snapped, "Do you think I wouldn't remember talking to a man like that, about something so significant? Do you think me brainless, like La Sorelli?"

"Of course not," he said. "But I still don't understand how…"

"Neither do I," she said. "I've had…other dreams before, that felt just as real, although they took place in the present, not the past." She hoped he wouldn't pry any further into _that _subject. "Though of course that's a bit different."

"What sort of dreams?" he queried, and her cheeks burned.

"Dreams in which I spoke to you," she said, deciding to leave it at that. "And you talked about Christine. Now there isn't any way I could have known about _that_, all the way across the Atlantic, is there?"

Erik seemed slightly taken aback. "You say you…" Suddenly he stopped, and a faint flush swept his own face. "No," he said. "Mere coincidence."

"Coincidence!" Tora said in a rage. "There isn't any way I could have…"

"No, no, I don't mean knowing about Christine," he snapped. "There was…you…I…never mind it, now," he said, looking away.

"What?" she demanded. "Erik, what?" She abruptly felt a bit of horror. Was he telling her that he had had the same dreams as she? And if he really had...

Oh, dear.

"Let's not talk about it anymore," she said, her fingers unconsciously gripping his arm a little more tightly than she meant. She felt uncomfortably warm with embarrassment.

Erik said nothing, and they walked in silence for many moments.

"The moon is bright tonight," he said at last, his tone quiet and solemn, sounding as though they had never touched on a humiliating subject of any kind. "She gleams like a piece of silver at the bottom of a well."

Tora smiled a little, liking the way his voice wrapped around the words and made them glide. "If it were at the bottom of a well, would you fetch it for me?" she asked lightly.

"Without a moment's notice, if you were to command me," he murmured. "I think I might do nearly anything you were to require of me."

Tora felt a bit embarrassed, but a warm shiver ran up her spine, and her curiosity peaked. "Like what?" she queried.

He was silent for a moment. "Get rid of the torture chamber…procure you a position as head dancer…buy a house aboveground and fill it with beautiful things."

Tora blushed. "I don't want to be head dancer on anything but my own merit," she said. "But I would like you to get rid of…_it_. And as for buying a house…"

"Tora," he said suddenly, and his voice was almost violently passionate as he turned around to face her, grasping her hands earnestly. "Erik needs you. More than he has ever needed anyone in his life. And such a long, weary, cold life it has been! You have thawed his frozen soul, made him…"

"I _would_ like to ask you to do something," she said suddenly, aware of the slight cruelty of it but unable to resist a moment longer.

"Yes?" he asked nervously.

"Stop speaking of yourself as though you were another man," she said. "I know it's defensive, that it makes you feel safer…but please stop. You've no need to do it around me."

He stiffened. "One is hard-pressed to break a habit of so many years," he said. "But since you ask it of me…"

Tora immediately felt completely humiliated. "Forget I said anything," she replied hurriedly. "It was rude, especially to interrupt you that way. I didn't mean it."

Erik fell silent again.

"I didn't mean to offend," she said, her voice stumbling in her own ears. "I meant it as…as a good thing. You know…that you might feel free around me…"

"Were I to restrict myself from that speaking habit," he said succinctly, "I would hardly feel free. It is as natural to me as anything else. Half the time I scarcely realize I am employing it."

"You needn't listen to me," she said in a low voice. "I'm just being silly. Impulsive. It's my nature, you know…"

"Yes," he murmured. "You remind me of a falcon in captivity. Barely restrained, mostly docile on the surface, and bold as brass beneath it all."

Tora giggled in spite of herself. "Such metaphors," she said. "Which reminds me of the moon in the well you mentioned earlier. Have you always had a penchant for waxing poetic?"

"Call it my musical soul..." he said absently. "Music is nothing if not poetry...and there are some particular people who inspire me more than others."

Tora said nothing, and there was silence between them for another few moments before she spoke again.

"How long shall we walk?" she queried, looking nervously at a glowing red dot in the distance—surely a man with a lit cigar.

"As long as you wish," he said smoothly. "I rather like strolling about in the dark. Although the moon provides a fair bit of light…but she is kind. She does not lay bare all beneath her, as does her sister the sun."

Tora wondered if he was speaking of his appearance. "Does the sun ever…hurt your eyes?" she asked cautiously, and was surprised to hear him laugh.

"No more than any other whose eyes are accustomed to dim light," he said. "It merely takes a moment for me to adjust. But the sun has a way of being cruel to her subjects…she leaves no shadows—not enough for hiding, at any rate, unlike those which the moon is so gracious to provide."

"You shouldn't have to hide," Tora said suddenly, feeling angry. She was not cross with him, but enraged at the society which had made him feel so intensely self-aware, as a roach which might discover it was being simultaneously studied and loathed by curious human beings. "You shouldn't even have to…you know…" She tapped his false nose—lightly, though, for she was afraid it might fall off. "All this. Trappings for an ignorant mass of people obsessed with what they consider normalcy."

"But why does a lady wear an evening gown or a man wear a top hat?" he countered, though she detected a ghost of a smile on his face—he was apparently pleased and perhaps a bit touched by her righteous indignation on his part. "It is all about presentability—elegance."

"And it is the silly whims of the people which erect the standards for such 'presentability'," Tora retorted. "I tell you, it is ridiculous. No one should be ashamed of how they look. Why are we taught from an early age to hate and fear those who appear different from us, without knowing a thing about them? If only we could learn not to notice differences, to instantly accept…" She was red-faced, embarrassed at her outburst but feeling unable to stop herself.

"I rather think it is not so much a lesson learned as it is a basic instinct of the human animal, my dear," he said hollowly. "Human nature, to seek the beautiful, that which is pleasing to the eye. However, in that you yourself are partly right, for what is pleasing to one eye may not be so pleasing to another. But that, _cherie_, is a matter of taste, which may be both learned and instinctual, or either, or neither. Who knows?"

"Now you're being ridiculously philosophical, going around in circles," she said, poking him in the ribs. He jumped a little, and looked at her almost angrily. "Now what on earth was that for?" he demanded.

"Nothing," she said, a bit surprised. "It was playful…"

He sighed. "Forgive me," he said. "It reminded me of…something long ago. Something…not very nice."

"What?" asked Tora, feeling a little alarmed and humiliated at the same time.

"Not a pretty story for your lovely ears," he said grimly. "There was once a young man with an exceptionally loathsome visage who was very often prodded with a stick by small children."

Tora grimaced. "You mean…"

"I was with gypsies for a time, as I told you long ago," he said sullenly. "I traveled…showed off my voice. And my glorious ugliness to boot. It was more than the crowd could stand. They were enraptured and disgusted all at once…quite a recipe for coin in one's purse. As for the children…they treated me like some sort of large, fascinatingly grotesque insect. It was absolutely infuriating, but I couldn't very well retaliate, at least not in a way that would make them stay away. My attempts to frighten them only made them scatter and then regroup, more damnably curious than ever."

"Children don't always know any better," Tora said, aware of how empty that sounded. "Still…their parents…"

"It does not matter any more," Erik interrupted. "I don't wish to speak of it further at present. I trust you understand."

"Of course," Tora murmured, and her grip tightened possessively upon his arm. The glowing red dot was growing ever nearer.

"Erik…" she whispered. "Up ahead…"

"I saw it before you did," he replied calmly, his voice soothing. "Don't fret. I shan't let anybody molest us."

She shivered and drew closer to him. He removed his arm from hers and placed his hand on the small of her back, lightly. She felt the coolness of his fingers even through her clothing, and was embarrassed to swiftly compare it to the surprising heat of his hands during their piano lesson. Were they cold now because he simply did not want her as keenly as he had then, or was it because his mind was fixed on the possibility of danger up ahead?

_Oh, you dreadful girl,_ her mind whispered. _You shouldn't think about such things._

"But I can't help it," she murmured, and when Erik gave her a puzzled look, her cheeks flushed. "Sometimes I talk to myself aloud without thinking," she mumbled. "Don't pay me any heed."

His fingers slid a little on her back, slight movements, but indicative of a kind of subtle exploration. It was as though he expected her not to be paying any attention to it.

_He thinks I'm focused on that glow,_ she thought, not sure whether to be amused or outraged. _That I won't notice._

Around his fingers came, slowly, so slowly, lingering, to her waist. He hovered a little, the light touch making the skin beneath her dress prickle with pleasure.

Tora cleared her throat, about to say something rather half-hearted about propriety, but just then, the source of the red glowing dot came into full view.

The man was small, but he possessed a stocky, solid frame. It was indeed a cigar dangling from his mouth; he removed it and blew the smoke into Tora's face. She felt Erik stiffen beside her.

"Wait," she whispered, coughing a little from the noxious vapor. "Don't do anything rash. Yet."

"Lovely night for walkin'," said the man lazily, eyeing the pair of them, but particularly interested in Tora. "Nice little tart you've got there…"

She felt Erik poised to spring at the man, and quickly squeezed his arm. "Wait."

"Sir," Erik said with an effort, his face contorted in a sort of ghastly grimace as he attempted to be civil, "you _will_ move from our path. _This instant._"

The man took a step back—Erik's voice was rather menacing, after all—but quickly recovered. "Now, now," he said cheerfully. "We'll have none of that. Just hand over your valuables. Quickly, now…before I have to get nasty…"

"You're making a dreadful mistake," Tora said desperately. _I do not want to see Erik kill a man. _"You have grossly underestimated your opponent." _Just like the big man in my dream,_ she thought in a wild haze.

"Have I, now?" The man squinted through the moonlight, and Tora noticed with a jolt that he was running his finger along a wicked little knife. "Now what's a pretty little lady like you doing with an ugly longshanks like this? He must have paid you quite a sum--"

"Erik, don't!" she gasped, feeling his hand slip from her back. "Just—"

There was a lightning-quick scuffle. The cigar went flying, and Tora quickly stamped it out with her foot before peering in panic through the dim moonlight to see the outcome of the struggle.

Erik's hands were around the man's throat, appearing to exert no effort. His face was calm, composed—despite the fact that his false nose was hanging crazily at an angle—even as the man clawed at his arms and fingers, gasping for breath.

"Now, _monsieur,_" he said coolly, and Tora, though frozen, thought she detected a ghost of—was that—_pleasure _on his face? "You have had a stroke of luck. For the lady's sake, and her sake only, you will not die this night…not if you behave like a good fellow and promise to take your dubious method of money-gathering elsewhere."

The man choked and gagged, nodding furiously. Erik squeezed just a little more, and the man went limp.

"Erik!" Tora nearly shrieked, but it came out in a gasp. "You didn't—you said—oh, God…" She felt faint.

"Unconscious," Erik replied smoothly. He felt his face and cursed under his breath, quickly pulling a small container from his pocket and straightening his nose with a little bit of that paste she had seen earlier in his home. "Not in the least bit deceased. Would you like to feel his pulse?"

"N—n—no," Tora said nervously.

He got to his feet. She felt a rush of strangely erotic thrill, suddenly, looking at his long dark shape and recalling the terrifying ease with which he had subdued their would-be assailant.

Was it the danger of simply being with him that had her so dizzily flushed, the proverbial catching of a tiger by the tail?

She felt faintly horrified at herself, but the thrill of terror that shot up her spine when he walked back to her was absolutely delicious.

"I rather think we ought to be getting back now," she said faintly, shivering as he took her arm again. "We…we…" She was having trouble keeping back wild fantasies of being dragged to a church and wed half-against her will, then riding back in the cab to the Opera, plunging into his domain and being taken roughly on that big, soft bed—

_Oh, God. Have I gone mad?_

Tora turned her head away so he couldn't see her face.

"Are you all right?" he asked. "I wish it hadn't happened. But…you kept me back. I didn't kill him, for your sake…"

"Yes," she said, wondering awkwardly whether or not a _Thank you _was appropriate or completely redundant. She decided to chance it. "Thank you."

Silence fell between them, thick and tangible. Tora's lips were dry, and she licked them nervously.

"There's a path, here," he said. "Small and mostly unused, but it leads back to the road."

"You've been here many a time, haven't you," she said.

"To think," he said. "And to be one with the night, with the trees. If you can avoid the riff-raff, it is very soothing, to slip through the shadows and breathe the air…to be separate, for once, to be no-one but yourself."

Tora suddenly had a brief vision of him as a young man, unmasked, running through moonlit trees in a faraway forest and leaning his head back in ecstasy. It caused a sudden, sharp longing in her. _I wish I had known you then._

"When?"

"Did I say that aloud?" she asked in embarrassment. _Not again_... "I didn't mean to."

"What are you speaking of?" Erik demanded. "You wish you had known me when?"

"When you were young," she said, and quickly added, "Not for the reason you think."

She had already felt him stiffen, his manner becoming dark. "You were an idealist when you were young, weren't you? Full of grand ideas and sparkling hope?"

"Yes," he said softly, glancing at her curiously. He relaxed, though she could feel the tired bitterness emanating from him. "You made me feel my age like a heavy weight, you know…when you said you wished…"

"I'm sorry," she muttered. "Only…there is that too. We could have had an entire lifetime together. Your soul never would have needed to be thawed, having never been frozen." She sighed. "If only I had lived then…and gotten to you before the world did."

She saw a smile on his face. "Yes," he breathed. "If only."

Tora kissed his hand.

"You are sweet, child," he said, and rather than feeling pleased, she felt slightly irritated.

"Don't call me that," she retorted. "Don't talk as if you were my father, rather than my…"

She broke off, quickly. Erik cleared his throat. "Your..." he trailed off, waiting for her to finish the phrase.

"I don't know," she muttered, her face burning. "Erik…this is no doubt rather rude of me, but…how old _are _you, exactly?"

He was quiet for a moment. "When you were yet an infant in the crib, Erik was in the prime of his manhood," he said. "If that gives you some indication."

"But…oh," said Tora very quietly.

"I am at least thirty years your senior, child," he said, sounding embarrassed. "Don't look at me like that! I shall call you whatever I like. Especially now, when I feel so old…"

"Don't talk so," she said. "Greater age discrepancies between…two people…have existed than that. It isn't unusual…"

"Yes, but speaking about it makes it all the more tangible and humiliating," he replied. "Don't talk about it any further, please." He paused. "Unless it presents a sizeable objection, of course."

"It doesn't," she said quickly, though privately she was slightly shocked that he was so much older than she. She hadn't thought him any older than forty.

She heard him take a breath. "Very well."

The road appeared, glimmering a little in the gaslight. Erik hailed a passing hansom cab and paid the driver. "My dear," he said smoothly, opening the door for her and helping her inside.

_Thank heavens it's back to "my dear" instead of "child," _Tora thought, her hand lingering in his a little more than was necessary.

"To the Opera," Erik said to the driver, and climbed in beside her.

The carriage clattered off, jostling and bouncing as it went its way.


	40. Decent Proposal

**A/N: Thanks to everyone for some great reviews. **

**I've been rereading some early chapters recently and I think I may go through yet another massive revisonary process soon; a lot of the older author's notes are really dated, I see a lot of ways the writing in some places could be improved, some French words are missing some accents and whatnot (because I got lazy, spammit), and I think some of the shorter chapters ought to be lengthened a bit so as not to be so glaringly size-discrepant with the much larger ones. I'll let you know when it's been completed so that you can go back and reread the new and improved OW.**

**This chapter took quite a lot out of me; I struggled with many bouts of writer's block during this one, which is partly why it took so long to get up (that, and my internet being funky as h--). There's still a bit more to come, don't worry…**

* * *

"You were a fright last night, _ch__é__rie,_" said Suzette, braiding her hair in front of the mirror. "Tossing and moaning. None of us could get any sleep."

Tora blushed. "I had an interesting evening," she said sullenly. "And dreadful dreams."

Suzette glanced sideways, smiling knowingly. "Not so dreadful, from the look on your face. You remind me of a tomato."

Tora gritted her teeth. "I don't _like_ having those sorts of dreams…I wake up feeling as though I've just had a piece of luscious cake up to my lips to eat and suddenly had it dashed from my hand onto the floor."

Suzette laughed heartily. "No offense, _ch__é__rie,_ but you have a man now. You could quite easily—"

"I most certainly could _not_," snapped Tora. "At least, not yet."

"Did you have a quarrel, last night?" asked Suzette. "You seemed very quiet when you came back."

"Of a sort," sighed Tora. "He wants to marry me, you know…"

"He _proposed?_" demanded Suzette, suddenly whipping around to face her. "Why don't you _tell_ me these things? When did he ask? What did you say?"

Tora put her fingers to her temples. "_Pour l'amour de Dieu_," she groaned, "stop barraging me with questions. It's a work in progress, and that is all I am going to say about it."

Suzette glared at her. "You know, sometimes I wish we were seventeen again," she said. "We couldn't keep secrets if our lives depended upon it."

"I wish it too," said Tora, sighing. "Everything seemed so much brighter then…responsibility wasn't quite so heavy."

Her friend rolled her eyes. "Romance was comprised of silly flings and coy looks."

"Champagne was still something wicked and delightful," said Tora.

"We thought it was _funny_ when stage-hands would give us a pinch on the buttocks," said Suzette.

Tora dissolved into helpless laughter.

* * *

Erik fingered his billfold in his hand. "How much?' he asked the storekeeper, a stout man with a little moustache which curled at the edges.

The man told him, and Erik hissed between his teeth. "Very well," he said sullenly, placing the entire amount on the elaborate wooden countertop.

The man clasped his pudgy hands together in apparent delight. "It is a lovely thing—a true work of art, _monsieur,_" he said. "You will not be sorry for buying it, nor, I imagine, will be your lady."

"We'll see," muttered Erik darkly, and left the shop with his parcel stowed safely in his pocket.

* * *

He watched Tora go through rehearsal, trying not to look at her legs. It was some new opera he had never heard of, from a fairly unknown name, probably destined to only last the week before the management moved on to bigger, better things. He didn't like it; the music sounded sloppy, and the story was a bore.

Erik yawned, suppressing a smile. If the management didn't get rid of it themselves before the week was out, he would make certain they did.

His eyes never left her. Tora's costume dipped a little scandalously, exposing a fair bit of cleft, and it hugged her body in a way that made him wish fervently that he were the fabric.

Much as he enjoyed drinking in the sight of her, he had never been fond of spectacle overtaking plot in operatic endeavors; too, he was consumed by the jealous thought that such an outfit would surely cause other eyes to notice her as well—and not for her beautiful dancing.

_I must remember,_ he thought,_ to send a note to the costumer…_

Rehearsal ended; Tora walked off by herself, the other girls trotting off in other directions. Even that insufferable prissy Suzette didn't follow her this time.

His lovely was walking lazily in a direction that would bring her quite close to his hiding place. How convenient.

His white hand flashed out and grabbed her arm, whipping her into the shadows, behind a drooping curtain. Before she could make a noise, her wide eyes caught sight of who had abducted her, and the shock abruptly turned to a more disgruntled expression.

"_Mon Dieu!_" she said. "Aren't you the bold one today! You might have at least…"

"You look lovely, little bird," he murmured. "As always."

She blushed, and then seemed to realize that their bodies were pressed together rather inappropriately. She tried to push him away, but his hand was against her back and she couldn't budge.

"Erik, really," she protested, squirming a little, but it seemed halfhearted.

"I have a gift for you," he said.

"Indeed," said Tora. "What might that be?"

"Not here," he said. "I thought we might…go down to my abode and have one of those long chats I promised you, over a glass or two of good wine."

Her eyes narrowed. "You're not planning to render me drunk and helpless, are you?" she asked suspiciously—did she really think him capable of such a thing, or was she bantering with him again? He couldn't be sure, and decided to ignore her question.

"You should relax," he said by way of explanation, "after such a grueling rehearsal."

She raised an eyebrow and leaned away from him a little. "You're acting strange, Erik…"

"Perhaps I'm in a good mood," he said, letting her go. He wanted to feel the weight of her hair in his hands, run it over his skin like a waterfall, but didn't dare.

"I am glad I didn't stay with you for a week after all," she said absently, looking toward the stage. "Mme. Gervais is being very insistent when it comes to our practice. Moreso even than usual…"

"She is under a nervous strain," said Erik, chuckling a little. "She suspects her lover of playing her false, and is most upset at the prospect."

"Mme. Gervais…a _lover?_" asked Tora incredulously. "Since when has she had…and how do _you_ know about it?"

He laughed aloud at her shocked grimace. "She has been dallying with a slender young journalist for the past six months—and I know everything. At least, everything that goes on here."

"_Really,_ Erik," Tora said chastisingly. "You shouldn't poke so in people's affairs—"

"What happens in my Opera House," he said brusquely, "is my affair. And it _is_ mine, for I built more of it than anyone would care to guess, and even—"

"You what?" asked Tora.

Erik sighed. "Perhaps better told over wine," he said. "And I'll tell you a little about my time in India, in the Punjab region, and more about Persia, and perhaps even my time spent in Brussels, designing buildings on the new boulevards after the covering of the Senne."

"That doesn't sound nearly so exciting as India or Persia," Tora retorted with a wrinkled nose, and Erik grinned. "It wasn't," he said. "Dreadfully boring, in fact…almost downright miserable. Perhaps I'll tell you about the gypsy camps, instead."

"Yes, do," she said delightedly, but then a shadow came across her face. "Although I forgot for a moment…what you spoke of last night regarding them…"

He waved his hand, grimacing a little. "I shan't talk about the gruesome aspects," he said. "Only the colorful." He glanced at her. "You ought to change into something more…substantial."

"Oh, yes…" Tora said, seeming suddenly to become intensely self-aware of her slightly scandalous outfit. "This silly thing…I feel exposed. It's embarrassing."

"I plan to influence the costumer on that score," said Erik. "Besides your obvious discomfort, which doesn't make me happy at all, I don't like thinking of…"

Tora shifted uncomfortably. "What?"

Erik felt a little embarrassed to be admitting it, but decided it was harmless. It might even make her feel...safer. Protected. "Other men…looking at you. I would highly prefer that they didn't."

Tora blushed, and gave a little nervous laugh. "Why would they…"

"They are not blind, Tora," said Erik softly, and she shuddered—was she cold?

"You're shivering, my dear—one more reason for you to change into proper clothes," he said as he took off his cape and swept it around her shoulders. She seemed a little embarrassed at this gesture, but if she was, she didn't indicate it verbally.

"I didn't shiver because I was cold," she said in a low voice. "It was because…it was the way you said my name. You don't say it very often, you know…you're always calling me _my dear, _or _little bird._"

Erik felt very odd, suddenly. "What way do you mean?" he asked curiously.

She blushed, and wrapped the cape closer around her—was she…was she actually…_breathing in the scent?_

"It was…like silk sliding over bare skin," she whispered.

Erik took a shuddering breath. The images those words produced were not ones he wanted invading his mind at this particular moment. His fingers twitched.

Tora licked her lips, looking nervous. Her cheeks were fetchingly flushed with embarrassment. It was all too easy to imagine them flushed for a far different reason...

_None of that. Not now. Grab hold of yourself...control. Control. _

She was so beautiful that it terrified him. Never again did he want to come so close to forcing her as he had the other evening. _It would be horrifically easy,_ he thought, _even though she would put up such a valiant, doomed little struggle…_

Not that again. His desire at the thought of her trying to get away rocketed through his veins like a quick, sharp lightning-bolt. _Her writhing little body against my own…_

_Mon Dieu._

His breathing was quick, and his pulse raced.

"I think," he gasped, "that you ought to leave. Now. To go change…"

Tora's eyes flicked up to his, and she raised an eyebrow. She began to remove the cape from her shoulders.

"Do you want your—"

"_No!_" he bellowed, and she shrank back from him.

"I shall be waiting in the same corridor as last time," he said in a barely controlled tone, but a surprisingly conversational one considering his frame of mind. "You really ought to leave Erik now…go, go on, before you regret staying another moment…"

She took a step backwards.

"Take all the time you need," he said, cursing himself. "But do try not to be _too _long…"

What a fool he sounded!

Tora turned, and her hair whipped around close enough for him to catch its scent. She was quick, but not quick enough for him.

"Wait," he begged, grabbing her shoulder. She paused, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye.

"You _will_ be there…to meet me…?" he whispered.

Tora laughed a little, and he had to force back his raging impulse to pepper her lovely throat with kisses. Really, he scarcely would have dared it even if she herself had given him leave, which was dreadfully unlikely.

"Of course, dear," she said, and pressed her lips briefly to his hand before slipping free and running out of the concealing curtain.

* * *

Suzette was busy writing a letter to her mother when Tora raced into the dormitory, a billowing black cape wrapped around her shoulders.

Her eyes widened. "_Ch__érie…_is…is that…"

Tora laughed delightedly, spinning around for the full effect. "Yes, indeed. Behold, the cape of _Le Fantôme._"

"You're awfully lucky that the rest of the girls aren't here," Suzette muttered. "They'd attack you like a pack of ravenous harpies." She got up from her chair and grabbed a little bit of the cape, running it between her fingers. "So he _is_ real…"

"_Mon Dieu, _don't tell me you thought I made the whole thing up," Tora said in an offended voice. "Of course he is. Just a bit more real than most might think."

"Tora…" Suzette said suddenly, something dawning upon her that had slipped her mind before. "I can't believe I didn't think of it…but did you ever speak to him about…"

Tora's eyelids flickered, and her cheek twitched. "About what?"

"You know…" Suzette looked around, and then whispered, "_The deaths_," in Tora's ear.

Her friend's face seemed to drain entirely of blood.

"Did you?" Suzette demanded, feeling cold.

Tora swallowed. "_Oui_," she said quietly. "We…we spoke of them."

"And?"

"Buquet's death was not his doing," said Tora in a low voice. "The man committed suicide."

Suzette blanched.

"As for the…the chandelier," Tora continued, her fingers twisting together in a horrible fashion, "he didn't do that either. It was very old and worn…it fell of its own accord." Her eyes fell to the floor.

Suzette's eyes widened. _She's lying._

There was silence for a moment. "_Chérie,_" Suzette said slowly, as gently as she could, "have you thought about going to the police?"

Tora's eyes snapped up. "What on earth are you talking about?" she hissed. "I told you the chandelier fell on its own…and Buquet—"

Her eyes filled up with tears, suddenly, and she grabbed Suzette by the shoulders. "He _didn't_ kill Buquet," she said earnestly, almost violently, and Suzette shrank back a little. "He didn't. At least, not directly. But the chandelier…oh, God, Suzette, you can't tell a soul, you can't. _Promise_ me you won't."

Tears were streaming down Tora's face. "Men kill each other in wars," she sobbed, "and no one notices or cares. He's sorry for the chandelier…it's all in the past…you can't tell anyone, Suzette. Please…"

"Tora, you're frightening me," said Suzette, feeling very alarmed at the turn this conversation had taken. "Why…"

"I love him, Suzette, I love him," Tora said in a choked voice. "He's different now…you don't know. He could have killed a man last night…a man who threatened us with a knife…but he didn't. If you told anybody…if he were to be discovered…I couldn't bear it. Especially if it was because of me."

"All right…all right…" Suzette found herself promising, while her blood ran cold. _Tora in love with a murderer._ "I shan't tell a soul. But you might be in such danger, _chérie…_"

"I'm not, I tell you!" snapped Tora. "He wouldn't harm me if the very universe hung in the balance. He's had plenty of opportunities, believe me."

"Tora…" Suzette tried again to speak, to reason, but the words wouldn't come.

"I have to change out of my costume," said Tora, drawing back and wiping furiously at her eyes. "I have somewhere to go…"

"With…with him?" asked Suzette in a small voice.

"Suzette," Tora said calmly, wiping at her eyes again and belying the tearful panic she had exuded before, "Trust me, please…it's all right. Other men have secret pasts besides Erik, after all…I'll wager several good men have done at least one horrible thing in their life that they're not proud of."

Suzette mulled this over for a moment, but still couldn't quite come to terms with it. "And has Erik done only one horrible thing?" she asked quietly.

Tora stiffened, her back to Suzette. "No," she whispered. "He's done many. But Suzette, the fact that he's told me so much about it…doesn't that indicate repentance? He's changed, _chérie_. He wants to be different. He wants to be a better man."

"Wanting and being are two different things entirely," muttered Suzette. "Are you sure that he is changed, or is he only making you believe it so that you will be with him?"

Tora shook her hair out, trying to comb some of the tangles with her fingers. "Ah, _morbleu,_" she exclaimed, and then seemed to register Suzette's question. She paused. "I don't know," she said quietly. "But oughtn't I to give him a chance?"

Suzette sighed. "If any harm comes to you," she said, "I _will_ go to the police. I don't care about any protestations from you. If he even so much as…"

"He won't," said Tora, rolling her eyes. "Honestly, Suzette."

"You're being awfully foolhardy, if you ask me," Suzette retorted.

"I can't help it," Tora sighed, grabbing one of the dresses he had given her, so long ago. "It's as though I've partaken of some drug. I don't think I could survive without him, anymore."

* * *

Tora crept down the hall, sliding past some of the older, chattering sopranos, prepared to feel his cold hand on her arm at any moment.

She wasn't disappointed.

"You're still wearing my cape," he said when he pulled her into the shadows. His voice was a caress, and it made her shiver again.

"It's terribly comfortable," she said, wrapping her arms around him and hearing him hiss a little. "But I think you ought to have it back, really…it looks far better on you."

"Perhaps I shouldn't tell you this," he said, sliding a chilly finger down her cheek, "but I think…" He broke off abruptly.

"Oh, go on, tell me," she said. "Be daring." She laughed just a little, and he sighed.

"_Non,_" he said. "I don't think I will, just now." He brushed a stray strand of hair from her forehead, letting his fingers linger on it more than was necessary. "May…may I…"

He sighed again, suddenly. "Forgive me," he said. "Erik is still shy about these things…He would like to…kiss your forehead."

Tora laughed again, trying to be quiet so that no one would hear. "Erik may kiss my forehead any time he wishes," she said.

He was silent for a moment. "Truly?" he asked.

She felt delight bubbling up within her—he was so endearing when he was the reticent gentleman. "Truly," she said.

"Well…all right," he said, and brushed his mouth lightly against her forehead, shivering a little as he did so. "_Any_ time I wish, without having to ask?" he queried suddenly, his voice both nervous and eager. "What about…what about…your cheek? Or…the top of your head?"

Tora sighed. "_Yes_, silly," she said, putting her hand in his and tugging. "Both. Any time you wish, without having to ask. Let's go, shall we? I'm anxious to hear about India."

* * *

It took seemingly forever to make their way down to the fifth cellar, into the bowels which held the shimmering underground lake.

"I hope that fool of a daroga isn't poking about, anxious to catch a glimpse of my misdeeds," said Erik sardonically, looking around the eerie blue cavern before setting his torch in an empty holder on the wall. "If I…"

"Where's the boat?" asked Tora suddenly, and Erik cursed.

"That miserable fiend!" he whispered. "What has he done with my boat? Are you there, daroga? Come out so I can wring your neck!"

There was a soft swishing noise, and Tora peered into the gloom.

The boat floated, empty, about twenty feet from the shore. The rope which had tied it trailed in the water, loose and frayed.

"_Really,_ Erik," she sighed. "You ought to be more careful with your knots."

"What?" exclaimed Erik, and then looked in the same direction. "Blast it," he muttered, and shot a glance at Tora before slipping into the water with barely a sound.

"Erik…" she began in alarm.

"If I _don't,_" came the voice from below in the dark water—she could see nothing of his shape—"the boat will only get farther away. And I haven't a pole long enough to retrieve it from this distance. It's bad enough that I didn't check my rope. Kindly don't make it any worse."

Tora saw a dark form crawl into the boat, and heard various curses being uttered as he propelled the boat back to shore with his bare hands, using them like paddles.

_I really mustn't giggle,_ she thought, barely keeping it inside, _but it's so dreadfully absurd…_

* * *

It was cold in the house on the lake, and dark. Erik flipped the switch in the parlor, and the light came on with a crackle and a little hum.

"Make yourself comfortable," he said. "I'll see to the fire."

Tora sat on the divan and drew her knees up beneath her, still wrapped in his cape.

Erik got the fire going and then pulled a little string by the fireplace. "For the smoke," he said. "That pull opens up a very small trap-door in the fourth cellar, and this flue goes all the way up. I built it so that the smoke could get out, but no one could get in."

"Clever," said Tora absently, looking around. "Erik, I haven't even seen half your house, have I?" she asked.

He smiled a little. "No, not the experiment room, or my library. I keep those locked, for good reason."

"Experiment room?" Tora asked nervously.

He laughed. "Visions of cadavers and bubbling potions drifting through your pretty head, Tora?"

Tora blushed.

"It's where I made my electricity," he said. "It's all purely scientific…nothing unnatural."

"I knew that," muttered Tora. It was beginning to get quite warm, so she wriggled out of his cape and draped it over a nearby chair.

She heard him hiss between his teeth again.

"I didn't…I didn't think you had kept any of them," he said in a low voice.

"What? Oh," said Tora, glancing down at her dress. "I kept them all. My pink one made quite a smash at my cousin Constance's dinner party. But I think I like this one best."

"Green is very becoming on you," Erik said without looking at her. He took a poker and pushed one of the logs with it, making a swirl of sparks fly up.

* * *

Tora began feeling hazy, after two-and-a-half glasses of chardonnay. Erik's voice droned silkily on, as it had for the past half-hour, speaking about the Sikhs he had known in India.

"God is not believed to be a single being or entity in Sikhism; rather, God might be interpreted as the universe itself, an all-encompassing, non-anthropomorphic force. A poetic notion, and certainly a less controversial one…after all, it seems that everyone who believes in the personified view of God must always argue about what color He is, or which peoples he prefers."

"Mm," said Tora drowsily. She didn't have the slightest idea of what "non-anthropomorphic" meant, but she liked the way it rolled off his tongue.

"Above all, Sikhs honor truth," said Erik. "They also place a great emphasis upon equality—"

"Erik," mumbled Tora, "I love listening to you speak, but could you…could you stop talking about the Sikhs and come here for a moment?"

Erik shifted in his chair. "Is there something you need?"

"I only want you to sit by me," she sighed. "You're all the way across the room, and…"

"It is no doubt better this way," he said. "This is all highly improper anyway, you being alone with me in my house, sipping wine and showing your ankles."

Tora glanced at her legs, which were propped up on an ottoman, and rolled her eyes.

"I never understood what was so inherently evil about an ankle that a woman must take care not to show it when dressed in proper attire. Ballet girls wear flesh-colored tights and show off nearly their entire legs, let alone their ankles. If you ask me, it's only _because_ someone placed that stipulation upon certain parts of anatomy that anybody takes any notice. If we all went about naked, people would take no more notice of even exposed breasts than they would a beautiful face."

Erik was quiet for a moment. "Tora," he said quietly, "how much wine have you drunk?"

She sighed. "Enough to make my tongue a bit looser than usual, it seems," she said blurrily. "Come _here._ I _told _you to come here—why don't you come?"

Erik got up from his chair and wordlessly went to the fire to stir it a little. "I'd rather not," he said sullenly. "I was going to ask you something, but I'm not entirely sure that I ought to, with you in such a state."

"What?" Tora retorted. "You think I'm drunk, don't you? I can assure you, _monsieur,_ that I am anything but!"

"I say you are," said Erik, glancing at her and waxing sardonic. "I suppose you're going to declare how handsome I am in a moment."

"Will you stop being difficult?" Tora groused. "Of course you're not handsome. I've _told _you that. You look awful. You're positively hideous! But I don't care."

She clapped a hand over her mouth momentarily, and then began laughing.

Erik poked a log fiercely. "So this is my lovely after too much wine," he said. "Not hallucinatory, but bluntly truthful. Perhaps I should take advantage of the fact, and ask you some things I have wanted to know the truth of for some time."

"Ask away," Tora said lazily.

"What exactly was the extent of your…relationship…with that boy?" Erik inquired, shooting a glance at her. "Don't lie to me. I _know_ there was something beyond friendship between the two of you. No matter how small or seemingly insignificant."

Tora knew she should probably feel nervous, but the wine made her feel comfortable and relaxed, almost arrogantly carefree. "Oh…" she said, "Well…I did kiss him once, which was a perfectly dreadful idea. And then he tried to have his way with me, but I gave him a great big kick in his…you know…" She leaned her head back against the divan and laughed again. "He never tried _that _again," she said with a grin.

Erik stared at her. "Indeed," he said softly, dangerously.

"He's a good boy, you know," she said, a red flag faintly going up in the back of her mind at his expression. _Angry at me for kissing Patrick, no doubt, and furious at Pat for not being a gentleman. _"But he got a little…excited." She giggled. "I would never kick _you_ if you came at me, of course," she sighed. "You'd only get a good slap, and then I'd just..."

She paused in mid-giggle, suddenly feeling faintly horrified. _Perhaps that _was_ going a bit too far. Gracious, I really don't have a head for wine at all, do I?_

Erik was very still for a moment.

Tora coughed a little.

"You needn't be jealous of that silly kiss," she said. "Any more than I should be jealous at Christine's clothes being in the closet, that is."

"On the subject of kissing," said Erik, sounding like a sullen child on the verge of exploding, "just how many men _have _you kissed, my dear?"

"Only you and Pat," she sighed.

"Ah," said Erik, a note of fury building in his voice, "so it's _Pat _now, is it?"

"Only because it's easier…to say…" Tora said with effort. "I'm getting so tired, you see…and I wish _you_ would come over here and kiss me. On my mouth, not my forehead."

"I don't think so," he said smoothly. "You might compare me to your precious Pat, since the memory of _his_ kiss is obviously so fresh in your mind."

"Oh, Erik," she sighed. "Just because _he_ has very nice-looking lips and _you_ barely have any lips at all doesn't mean that I preferred _him_."

Erik stiffened and rose to his feet.

"Sorry, dear," she said quickly. "I didn't mean to say it that way…what I meant was…I didn't feel a thing when he kissed me, you know…and when _you _kiss me…it's like…"

"Like what?" he said carefully, sounding cautiously curious.

Tora smiled and nestled against the corner of the divan, feeling like a cat taking a warm sunbath. A slightly drunk cat. "Like…like…oh, I don't know. There's this…warm feeling. It builds up, and spreads through my whole body…and then I feel tingly…and then I want to kiss you again."

Erik was frozen in place, staring at her.

"Again and again and again," she said giddily.

His breathing was heavy.

"Please…come here, Erik," she implored, wanting him very badly all of a sudden. The wine made her speak her thoughts aloud. "I want to be wrapped up in your arms," she said. "I want to feel your heart beat."

He gave a long, shuddering sigh.

"Oh, darling," he whispered. "You don't know what it does to Erik, when you say foolish things like that."

"Sit by me, at least," she whispered, and finally, he walked over, with stiff, uncertain steps, and settled awkwardly next to her, with as much space between them as he could manage.

She blew the air out of her lips. "_Erik,_" she complained, beckoning with her arm.

Slowly, he moved over until there was only a few inches between them. His hand reached out and slid, trembling, down her cheek.

"Sweet, silly girl," he murmured. "Foolish, beautiful Tora."

"Dear Erik," she said, and swiftly entwined her arms around the back of his neck, pulling him down so that her lips could meld with his.

He stiffened, and then groaned in his throat as her kiss deepened and became more insistent. A little pool of delight swirled in her stomach, and she ran her fingers gently down his poor parchment-like cheeks, using just the tips of her fingernails.

A long, deep shudder ran through him, and he sucked in a breath, leaning away from her. "You're mad, you know," he whispered. "You're absolutely, wonderfully mad. What spectacular act of goodness did I ever do to deserve you, my little seductress?"

She giggled, and then hiccupped a bit.

"I still want to ask you something very important," he said softly, "regarding that gift I mentioned. But I want your head to be a bit clearer before I do."

"My head's _fine,_ silly," she said, with another giggle. "What is it you want to ask me?"

"Wait here," he replied, and rose to his feet.

Tora involuntarily yawned, and glared at him. "What are you doing?"

He didn't answer, and slipped into another room. She heard cups clinking, and wondered vaguely what he was up to.

It seemed he was gone forever. She began to grow impatient, and wanted to get up and look for him, but her legs seemed leaden and her body was sluggish from the warm fire and the wine.

Abandoning the attempt, she sank back into the cushions just as he came out with a strange-smelling drink.

"Never mind what's in it," he said in response to her questioning look. "It will clear your mind sufficiently enough to be able to respond coherently to my question, and that is all you need know."

"Hmph," said Tora, and downed the whole thing, nearly choking at the bitter taste. "Blecch," she said. "What in God's name—"

"Some herbs you've probably never heard of before," he said. "I don't have very many, so I don't use them often. At any rate…"

"I still feel dizzy," she said.

"It will take a few moments," he replied. "You can't expect it to work at once."

Tora massaged her temples, suddenly feeling a dreadful pulling sensation in her forehead, and then…

"Goodness," she exclaimed. "It really does work."

Erik smiled, just a little.

Tora sighed. "I said some dreadfully absurd things, didn't I? Almost as though I were half-asleep."

He chuckled. "Never mind it now, _petite._"

"What was it you wanted to ask me?" she queried, taking her feet down from the ottoman and tucking them beneath her.

He appeared very nervous. "Not immediately…let Erik take his time, please."

"Very well," she sighed. "But I'm getting tired, you know…would it be all right if I sleep here tonight?"

"Any other time I might have said 'of course' without compunction," he said awkwardly. "But I don't know if you realize…how things have changed. I'm not refusing your request," he said quickly. "However…you should be aware…that…that it is very…difficult…for me to be near you at times…"

"Oh, _that_," she said, feeling a little strange. A shiver ran up her spine. "If you'd rather I didn't stay…"

"Actually, I'd prefer you did," he said in a small voice. "But I thought you ought to be aware that there are…risks."

"Haven't there always been?" she asked a little flippantly, raising an eyebrow.

He sighed. "If you will forgive my bluntness, my dear, it was far easier to ignore certain…urges when nothing romantic had occurred. Now, however, they are much harder to deny."

"I suppose I oughtn't kiss you again tonight," said Tora sullenly.

Erik grimaced and stretched out his legs to their full length, crossing his ankles together. Tora tried as hard as she could not to stare at them. She bit her lower lip involuntarily.

"The timing is all wrong," he said bitterly. "Perhaps I never should have given you that brew, and let you answer me while still in that foggy state."

"Answer _what,_ Erik?" she demanded, growing impatient.

He dug into his pocket, and pulled out a small, ornate little black box, brandishing it at her. Tora stared at it for a moment.

"This…" he struggled. "This is…Erik bought this for you today. But it isn't any ordinary piece of jewelry inside."

Tora felt hot and cold at the same time.

He opened it, and she gasped.

"_Mon Dieu,_ Erik…"

"I have even thought of a date," he said nervously. "Two weeks from the morrow, although that might be too soon for you. It could not come quickly _enough_ for me…"

Tora put a hand to her mouth, and closed her eyes.

"Any church you desire," he said. "Name it, and it will be done."

"I thought…I didn't expect…" she said weakly. "I wanted more time."

"When one reaches my age, Tora," he said sardonically, "one comes to realize that all the time in the world no longer exists. It is as a burning rope, which is nearing its end. When one is presented with the opportunity for happiness, waiting is no longer a viable option."

She opened her eyes.

"Please," he whispered. "For your Erik…"

"Tell me you love me," she said fiercely. "But only if you mean it."

"I do, I do," he said in a near-sob. "So much that I feel I am in exquisite agony and ecstasy almost perpetually. I feel that my existence would no longer have purpose were you not an active part of it. I love you. I love you madly."

Tora stared at the ring. She felt her future swirling around her, closing in like a steel trap.

_But I'm not at all sure that I mind this trap._

"All right, Erik," she said softly, taking both his hands in hers. "Two weeks from the morrow it is, then."


	41. Ambiguity

**A/N: It's alive! **

**Things have been ****dreadfully busy for me lately. Life swallowed me alive like Jonah's whale and only just spat me out again. I haven't had much time to write or communicate, and I actually lost inspiration for this story for a while, so I took a much-needed break from it. Even still, I feel that it's somehow lacking; it took a long time to get some things right, and in my hurry to finally get this posted at last, I'm afraid I might have failed to spend enough time on other parts that needed tweaking to make them less trite or more believable. Let me know what you think.**

**My writing took an interesting turn in this chapter. I didn't think I'd be bringing up Christine again, at least not in any more than a passing context, but…well, you'll see.**

**In case I decide to go on sabbatical again (or just take a devil of a long time to update), I've created a spiffy little Livejournal—the link is on my FFNet profile. It's pretty much a mix between general blogging about day-to-day stuff and detailed updates on my writing. I'm also gradually putting up small-to-medium-sized excerpts from chapters in progress, to either give a sneak peek for as yet unposted fics or hold fans over for ongoing fics like this when updating is taking a long time. Sounds good, _non?, _especially with NaNoWriMo just around the corner. My fanfiction won't be holding much of my attention for the whole month of November, I'm afraid--I am bound and determined to win NaNo this year.**

**P.S. Happy belated third birthday, Opera Wench! Jee-eez...**

**

* * *

**Erik opened his eyes.

He had fallen asleep in front of the fire, resting on the divan. Only smoldering embers now remained of the once roaring little inferno in the fireplace. A residual warmth still drifted through the otherwise chilly room, making the tips of his fingers tingle.

As his consciousness gradually dredged itself up from the slimy muck of sleep, the remembered realization struck him like lightning, and surrounded his heart with a panicked kind of joy.

_I am to be married._

He took a shuddering breath, and pressed his face into the cushion where she had been resting her lovely head only hours before. The scent of her hair and the smell of her skin still clung to the fabric, and he was jarringly reminded of another time he had done this, the day after they had met. He would never have dreamed of all this then. In those first strange, compelling days, she had been but a shadow, a vague but potent fantasy sifting through his fingers like sand.

Now she was more than tangible; she was solid, flesh, something to hold and keep and protect. She was _his_…or very nearly so.

He had kissed his Tora last night, after she had consented to marry him. He had not been able to help himself. It had not been one of the safe kisses, not on her cheek or on her head or on her hand, which she had told him he might give without ever having to ask. It had been a rough lover's kiss, on her soft, welcoming lips. He had claimed her mouth, had practically ravaged it. Looking back, he wondered how he'd ever had the nerve—she had never given permission for such a kiss. But she had been more than willing to accept it, it seemed, and all the while her words kept repeating themselves in his mind…_and then I want to kiss you again. Again and again and again._

Well, he had certainly obliged her.

They had been there on the divan together for a long time, and the thought had run briefly through his mind that nothing—or nearly nothing—could possibly be more transcendent or intensely beautiful than her arms around his neck, her mouth upon his mouth. It was because he did not wish to ruin that sweetness, that impossible state of bliss, that he had been able to keep his control.

He wanted to go up to visit her, or watch her, but then remembered that it was early in the morning and she was still here, in his house. Sleeping in the room with the Louis-Philippe furniture…

He felt sleepy again, relaxed. But mixed in with it was a strange sort of excitement, and he felt the need to see her, suddenly. He _must_ see her…

Pulled as if by an unseen hand, he got to his feet and drifted in a daze to her door. He tried the handle, and it wasn't locked.

A little shiver passed through him—was this merely blind trust or…an invitation?

_Not an invitation,_ he thought fiercely, trying to curb the wicked thought. _She wouldn't._ _And I can't. I _won't.

Still, what harm was there in merely watching her sleep? He cracked open the door, cautiously, and listened. Her breathing was steady, deep.

The door swung open gently, without a sound, and he took slow, soft steps across the room to where her lovely form lay slumbering.

Oh, this was a worse idea than he had imagined.

Her hair was spilling everywhere, a heavy dark shroud to grace the lucky pillow. Her mouth was open just a bit, making a tempting little cupid's-bow, and one leg had slipped free of the blanket, hanging off the bed. Her nightgown had managed to work its way up to her knee sometime during that incident, and her bare calf gleamed at him in the dim light, taunting him.

He felt his hands shaking, wanting to touch that skin. She was a sylph upon a bridal bed—

_Stop it. You fool! You treacherous, idiotic fool! She is not yours to have yet._

His hands did find her skin, then, only to lift the blanket a little and gently place her leg beneath it. His fingers felt a little shock of pleasure at the contact, but his control remained intact.

Erik breathed a sigh of relief. _There, that wasn't so hard after all. Quite easy, in fact…_

His hands were still shaking.

Then her eyes opened, fluttering a little, and he gasped. There was nowhere to go, not fast enough. Besides, he was frozen in place like a living statue.

She fixed her eyes on him, and he felt like a child with his hand in the cookie jar. This was dreadfully humiliating.

"T…Tora," he began, stumbling, trying to explain himself, but she spoke before he could.

"Erik," she sighed. "Silly Erik." Then she reached out her hand and patted the space next to her in the bed. It was a clear beckoning.

An icy chill ran through his veins, followed by molten lava. "You can't be serious," he breathed. "Are you mad?"

She arched her throat and laughed. "Don't talk," she said. "Lie here, by me."

Like an automaton, he came around to the other side and sat stiffly on the edge. There was a pregnant pause, and then he swung his legs up, keeping as far away from her as possible.

She rolled over, and her thigh brushed against his, warm and inviting. He sucked in a sharp breath of air, and his entire body stiffened. The heat of her body was agonizing, intoxicating. "Oh, God," he murmured, every word like a sweet lance of pain. "Oh, God, oh, dear God…"

"Do you want to see more of me?" she whispered tauntingly, and began to pull up her shift…

He opened his eyes with a start, the image dissolving with a little flash of light.

He was on the divan again, still staring at the dying fire.

_I never got up,_ he realized wildly, not sure whether to be relieved or maddened. _I never went in her room._ _It was all some half-awake dream…_

The door creaked, down the hall. He hurriedly rearranged his robe to hide the lingering, throbbing proof left behind by that lurid fantasy and waited nervously to hear her footstep, to inhale her scent. He felt dizzy and almost ill with anticipation and the after-effects of his dream.

_At least,_ he thought smugly to himself, _I've finally taken care of that wretched boy._

* * *

_A few minutes previously..._

Tora dreamt that she and Erik were already married.

They lived in a little house—a flat—somewhere in the city, an indistinct location, as was the way with dreams. There was some lingering melancholy over the house, a dark miasma of worry and fear.

Tora saw her belly swell gradually before her eyes. She ran into the kitchen to talk to Erik, to cry _I'm carrying our baby, our baby, oh God, what shall we do?_ and saw Erik tightening a noose around a man's throat, some stranger she had never seen. His eyes found hers, glimmering dangerously, and the world seemed painted in grays and blacks and brilliant, blinding whites before it all faded into nothing at all.

She woke in darkness, but saw a lingering light beneath her door, flickering faintly.

Her throat seemed unbearably dry—she had no idea what time it was, but she didn't quite care.

_Need water._

Sighing, she got up and groped around for the candle and a match. The candle's flame twinkled into existence, filling the space around her with dim luminescence. She quickly threw on the dressing-gown hanging over the chair beside her and grasped the candle holder by its small handle, walking to the door.

She listened, carefully. There was no noise. Perhaps he wasn't awake.

Praying it was so, she opened it and treaded carefully down the hall, stopping short when she passed the drawing-room. The back of his head was clearly visible over the divan.

There was a brief, very irreverent moment in which she wondered how on earth she had never truly noticed it before—the pasty-whiteness of his skull, the sparseness of his hair. It was not a particularly appetizing sight, and she immediately felt ashamed at herself for thinking so.

She didn't want to move, afraid to alert him to her presence. She thought she might die if he looked at her—would he be able to read her treacherous thoughts on her face? Too, she was still terrified over the lingering shadow of her dream—the memory of its details had already faded into something unable to be recalled—_something about a noose, and my belly?_—but the feeling, that dark cloak of fear, crept through her mind still.

Too late. He already knew she was there.

He didn't turn around, but his voice floated past her ear like a silken hand. "You're up early, little bird."

Tora made a strangled noise in her throat and fled into the kitchen, fumbling in the cupboard for a cup to fill with water.

"I've been thinking," he said in a low voice—she gave a start to hear him come up behind her—"if you feel you were a bit hasty last night, perhaps partly due to your…ahem…low intolerance for drink…I am not an inflexible tyrant. I'm quite reasonable, you know. I won't hold you to your consent if you wish to…reconsider."

Here it was, the way out, the means by which she might yet escape. He was offering it to her on a silver platter! It was so easy, so gloriously simple, to be free of this elegant steel trap. All she had to do was say _Yes, you're right, I was too hasty, my mind was foggy, even with that bitter serum you gave me to clear it up…I need more time, I need more space, I need to think, to be away from you for a while._

What came out of her mouth was something quite different, something she lamented as soon as it was gone. "Of course I don't wish to reconsider, Erik. How silly."

She heard him heave a sigh of relief, and she suddenly wanted to cry. "Oh, thank heaven," he said earnestly, and then his fingers were in her hair, taking no shame in stroking or fondling it possessively, as if to say _Mine._

A cold shiver ran up her spine, tingling and horrifying in its symbolism—_to be held briefly is one thing, but to _always_ be his, when we are married, no way out, no way back?_—but still she stood there, allowing him to hold her hair up to his skin, even allowing his fingers to come around to her face and trace feather-light touches upon her cheeks.

_I'm having second thoughts,_ she wanted to cry out, _I love you, but it really is too fast, I need more time, more time, _but the words refused to slide past her throat. As if from a distance she saw herself turning around to face him, smiling amiably, and pulling him down to place a chaste kiss upon his forehead. Heard him sigh.

How odd it was, to see him so happy! It made her feel sick, to think that this amicable farce was the cause of it. She felt like a monster. _Why can't he sense the doubts in my head? Is his keen observation so dulled by hope and happiness?_

The realization that it very likely was—that he was giddy to the point of total blindness at the thought that he was actually about to achieve normalcy, domesticity—only made her feel worse.

His arms snaked around her, though very lightly, his hands hovering at the small of her back, and she smiled at him again. This time the smile was not so easy; it was pained, and she knew it.

"Beautiful," he breathed. "My beautiful one. You are the loveliest creature I ever beheld—" He broke off, suddenly. "Something is troubling you," he said, stiffening a little. "What is it, _ch__érie?_"

Tora felt the shame rise in her throat like a swelling tide. "Nothing, it's nothing," she said quickly. "I don't feel very well, that's all…I'm all right, but I think I need to sit down for a moment."

He helped her into a nearby kitchen chair, his hands still lingering a little on her hair, running it along his fingers. He gave a deep, shuddering sigh.

Tora felt a chill creeping up her spine, freezing and merciless. "Erik," she blurted, "I…" She stopped. "When," she said more calmly, "when will you procure a…a house? I would prefer…" She halted again, severe embarrassment and an intense awareness of his hovering hands keeping her from saying _I would prefer my wedding night not be underground._

"As soon as possible," he said, and she could hear the lingering disbelief in his voice. "Tora, darling, I feel as though I'm floating in a fantastic dream." His voice was disjointed, peppered with that nervous joy, that helpless innocence.

Had he ever called her _darling_ before? She couldn't remember—her mind was a fog. "What shall I wear?" she asked helplessly. "I suppose I could use one of my—"

Erik made an odd sound, almost derisive. "I plan to buy you a complete trousseau, of course. You deserve no less, and I have a sufficient amount of funds to make certain you have only the best." Would his fingers _ever_ stop running over her hair? Like long, cold spiders they were…it all might have felt slightly pleasurable at another time, but her mind was in a painful whirl now, and his hands' constant attention to her tresses was an annoyance, a distracting nuisance.

"You needn't bother," she mumbled. "I can very easily—"

"What?" he interjected. "Wear one of your old dresses? It won't do, I tell you! I won't hear of it! You're not poor anymore, not as long as you're with me. You will have a completely new wardrobe—Erik will stuff your closets with clothes—and you will have a fine wedding dress, the loveliest anyone has ever seen. And there will be _many _closets in the new house—Erik will see to that—"

"Don't overwhelm me, dear," she begged, twisting away from his hands and getting to her feet. Her back was still to him, and her fingers gripped the edge of the small table. She bit her lower lip, hard enough to draw blood. "Remember that I'm not accustomed to being loaded down with finery—a few gifts at a time is quite sufficient for me. I hardly need more than one closet, and as for the new clothes—of course I would love to have some new clothes, but you mustn't overdo it—"

"We can quibble about the trousseau at a later date," Erik interrupted smoothly, though she thought she detected a note of disquiet in his voice at her breaking away. "But I will brook no argument on your wedding dress. We may procure the services of a dressmaker this very day, if you wish it."

Tora closed her eyes, and sighed. "Very well, Erik."

"You're not your usual self—something is wrong—you _must _tell me," he said, and she could hear the discomfort in his voice, the slow realization that perhaps she didn't share his ecstasy over their engagement. A sick feeling began to gather in the pit of her stomach, and she whirled around. He was happy—he would _stay_ happy, today. He _would_ not fall into a melancholy because she was experiencing brief, natural doubts.

"Oh, it's only that I'm…I'm terribly overwhelmed by all this," she said, and even managed a nervous laugh. "You needn't pay it any heed." To prove it, she gave him a hearty kiss on his mouth, and felt the familiar jolt of delight when he shivered under her lips.

"Forget the dress," she said, kissing him again on the cheek. "At least for the moment. I'd rather go house-hunting today."

"You leave that up to Erik," he said. "I shall rent us a flat until we can find more suitable lodgings. You'd like that, wouldn't you…a little flat…near the river? Only until I find something far better…not for very long…"

"I _would_ like that," said Tora with a little exasperated sigh. "I'd like it very much."

"I have a place already," Erik said doubtfully, "where any packages I order are sent. I bought it years ago. It's on the Rue Royale…do you know the street? But I think I shall sell it, at any rate…it's rather dowdy really…I haven't lived there for years."

"Erik, you're jumping from place to place like a rabbit," Tora said in exasperation. "At least let me _see_ the flat you have already—I may like it, and that would save you the trouble of selling it and renting another one."

"Perhaps," he said dubiously. "But I'd much rather—"

"Be sensible, Erik," said Tora. "We're—we're going to be—in two weeks—" She couldn't quite bring herself to say it—it was all so incomprehensible. Two weeks! _Dear God._ "Surely…it would make things—planning, that is…far less taxing, especially as I'm going to be busy with the upcoming production—"

"Of course," Erik said quickly. "You're right. Silly Erik! I'm far too grandiose…I'm getting ahead of myself…"

Tora put a hand to her temple. "If it is as neglected as you say," she said absently, "we could clean it…or you could hire someone…"

"Yes, yes," he said. "That is what I'll do…and we shall have all this furniture moved. Piece by piece…I shall think of some way to do it more or less inconspicuously…"

In spite of herself, Tora felt the old stirrings of excitement again. It was a bit of an adventure, after all, resurrecting the Opera Ghost from his underground abode…rescuing her Erik from his self-imposed exile…

At that moment, when she thought of him as _hers_, her doubts momentarily melted into the background, and a little bit of his giddiness seeped through into her own veins. She smiled a little, and kissed his cold hand. "Everything will be all right after all, I think," she said, hoping against hope that it was true.

* * *

"Tora," said Suzette very slowly. "_What _is that on your finger?"

Tora glanced down at her hand. "Oh. That," she said, and whispered, "It seems dear old O.G. and I have come to an…arrangement…regarding our tumultuous little relationship."

Suzette was very still for a moment, her eyes wide. "And this…this is what you want?" she asked cautiously.

Tora sighed. "Yes," she said, although she still wondered if it really was. She loved him desperately, but she wondered if that would be enough. "He plans to be married in two weeks."

Suzette raised an eyebrow. Tora shrugged off the creeping quiver at the nape of her neck, the one that let her know he was somewhere near, watching and listening.

"Am I going to meet him, this spectral lover of yours?" Suzette asked flippantly, and Tora fought the urge to cover Suzette's mouth.

"Perhaps," she said noncommittally. "Although I sorely doubt it. He doesn't like you, you know."

Suzette's eyes widened even further. Tora giggled a little. "He's heard us talking before."

"Well," said Suzette with a pinched mouth. "That makes two of us then. I don't like him either. I simply never said it before."

"You've never even met him," Tora sighed, and Suzette snorted. "And he can claim he has met me?"

"I meant you've never seen him, never heard him speak," said Tora. "If you did…"

"You told me what he's done," said Suzette. "It's only because of your desperate pleas that I keep silent that I haven't gone to the authorities. I'm worried for you, _amie…_"

"I don't know how many times I must tell you," Tora replied between clenched teeth, "you needn't be."

"Say what you want," Suzette retorted. "It won't change the fact that I am worried, almost constantly."

Tora sighed again, and fiddled with the ring on her finger. "It's beautiful, isn't it?"

"Extravagantly so," Suzette agreed, taking Tora's hand and examining it more closely. "_Mon Dieu! _You'd better be careful around the rest, or they might find some way of pilfering it from your finger."

"Erik would be quick to dole out his displeasure if they did, I am sure," Tora said darkly. "For their sakes, I hope no one tries."

Just then, Tora caught sight of Christine's blonde hair across the room, and was gratified beyond words to realize that there was no sudden surge of jealousy, as there had been before. It had all faded into near non-existence—or had it, really? She felt the absurd urge, suddenly, despite all her doubts, to wave her ring in Christine's face and say, _You were quicker to bear the sight of his face—or at least to pretend you did—but only I could really love him. And he wants me more than he ever wanted you—so there!_

How inane, how horribly childish! It was not Christine's fault that she'd been mixed up in that dreadful fiasco. If anything, she ought to be pitied. Tora felt rather ashamed of herself. But she felt a renewed determination to go through with this, to keep her promise to marry him. He deserved a chance at a normal life, and if she could give him that...

"How goes it, little Daaé?" asked Suzette, noting the direction of Tora's gaze.

"Very well, thank you," Christine said absently, and then caught sight of Tora. Her face whitened a little.

Tora could not help herself. She reached up nonchalantly and brushed back a stray strand of hair with her ring hand, making sure that the gem caught the light.

Christine's eyes went wide, and the question in them was undeniable. Tora nodded, smiled a little. Christine looked as though she were about to faint.

"Walk with me," she gasped, and grabbed Tora's arm, pulling her into the hall. Tora grimaced—she had no desire to be bosom friends or even casual confidantes with Christine, much as the ingénue seemed bent on it. Whenever Tora looked at her, all she could see was the closet in the Louis-Philippe room, stuffed with clothes that were meant to complement that taller, slightly bustier figure, that faerie-like skin and that glimmering halo of golden hair.

"He's very likely listening, you know," Tora managed. "He likes to…watch me."

Was that actually _jealousy_ in Christine's eyes? _She_ was jealous? It couldn't be. "You are…you are engaged to him?"

"_Oui_," said Tora, raising an eyebrow. "You can't possibly wish it was you in my place. All those things you said…"

Christine blushed. "It is not like _that_," she muttered. "It's only…"

"You would prefer to think of him languishing, pining for you? To think that you were the only woman he ever wanted?" Tora demanded incredulously. "Unfortunately for your romantic sentiments of courtly love, fate has other plans."

Christine's face grew redder and redder. "No…no…you don't understand…oh, God, _I _don't even understand…"

Tora pursed her lips. "Perhaps I do," she said softly. "Erik is like that. Once he has become entangled in your life, it is very difficult to excise him completely, if at all."

"Yes, yes, precisely," Christine whispered. "I do not love him as you do. But I find myself wondering, always wondering at odd times of day, _What is Erik thinking at this very moment? What is Erik doing?_ I cannot seem to drive him from my mind. I do not love him, not in any romantic sense, but I care for him still as my friend and teacher, and feel his influence ever lingering in my life even though he himself broke our acquaintance!"

Tora felt a surge of pity for the girl. "Don't think of him. Be happy, Christine. I've heard about you and your handsome young noble. People talk…"

Christine sighed. "His family does not like me. It will likely come to naught. He may be forced to renounce his title if he keeps up company with me."

Tora blanched. "How dreadful!"

"It does not matter," Christine said, and there were bitter tears gleaming unshed in her eyes. "Perhaps we were never meant to be together. I think perhaps I am doomed all my life to attract men that I do not want or cannot have!"

"Don't think like that," Tora said in consternation. "Don't…"

"Don't mind me," said Christine, grasping Tora's hands earnestly. "I wish you all the happiness in the world, dear..." She wiped at her eyes and turned away to run down the hall, and Tora could not move, even as she heard the sounds of Christine's barely controlled weeping fading away.

* * *

Christine wanted nothing more than to be alone. How embarrassing, that spectacle in front of Tora! Worse still, to know that Tora likely thought her a conniving little minx who wanted Erik now only because he was in the arms of another. It wasn't like that, it wasn't! She had tried to explain…perhaps Tora really had understood, but she didn't care to find out, not now while she was a tearful mess.

She heard a familiar sound, a swish in the shadows, and her body stiffened.

"Is it you?" she asked miserably. "Have you come to gloat over my sorrow? Well-deserved would be such triumph on your part, for I caused you nothing but pain, I am sure."

"My Christine has grown up," said a silky, mournful voice that sent shivers down her spine—how easy it was to pretend that he was still a disembodied sound from heaven, when she could not see him! How easy it was to think that they were back in the dressing-room, in the old days! "But surely she does not think I have forgotten her, or would be so crass or cruel as to enjoy the sight of her tears. She knows full well that Erik cannot bear the sight or sound of her crying."

Christine sniffled, and covered her face with her hand. "Oh, Erik, I don't know what to do any more."

To her surprise, she felt a cold finger slide along her cheek, and her eyes shot up to behold the familiar sight of his mask. She shivered a little, but there was a soothing strength in such familiarity, and she suddenly felt more calm than she had in days.

"Tell me, dear," said Erik, seeming to remember himself and quickly removing his hand from her face, "what is troubling you. Quickly, though, for anyone might come around that corner, and then I would have to leave."

"You…you want to know?" Christine queried, her body trembling. "I don't understand."

"You are my pupil, my daughter," said Erik. "I would help you, if I could. At the very least, I might provide you with a listening ear."

_He really wishes to know? _Christine lowered her eyes, words spilling from her lips almost unbidden even as she mulled over the absurdity of the situation. "I…oh, Philippe—you know, Raoul's brother—he used to be kind to me, before, when he didn't know me, but now he is always so snide and cruel, and his sisters…they whisper behind my back, and shoot daggers at me with their eyes when Raoul is not watching. What am I to do? I have no title to impress them. I am only a simple opera singer, which makes me something of a black sheep as far as they are concerned. A singer or a dancer may make a fine mistress, but never a wife. I can see it in their eyes. And I hate it!" She put a hand over her mouth—she hadn't meant to say so much, and felt a surge of humiliation.

Erik's stance tightened, and he drew back. "You love him very much to put up with such scorn, I take it."

Christine was terribly embarrassed to say anything about it—after all, this was the same man who only a few months ago had been kneeling at her feet, declaring his undying devotion to her and expressing extreme jealousy over any young man who looked twice at her, let alone Raoul. She stayed silent.

"Has the cat got your tongue?" Erik demanded. "I don't blame you for thinking me repugnant, but you might at least—"

"Yes," she whispered. "I love him very much."

"You would endure the scorn of his family to be with him?" Erik asked quietly.

Christine wiped a stray strand of hair from her face, not looking at him. "It's almost unbearable…but yes."

"I think I may know how to help you," Erik said. "If you would deign to accept help from me, that is."

Christine put a hand over her eyes. "Why would you help me, Erik?"

"Erik always watches over those who mean a great deal to him," he said. "You thought I'd forgotten you, or cast you completely aside, merely because I realized I did not love you the way I believed I did? Despite the fact that my feelings toward you are no longer romantic, I care a great deal what happens to you. I wish to see you happy and comfortable, not weeping in corners. Now tell me, will you accept Erik's help or not?"

Christine looked at him doubtfully. "I…" She sighed. "What would Marg—Tora think, if she saw you conversing with me like this? I have a feeling she's ten times as jealous as I am."

"She has nothing to do with this," Erik said abruptly, taking a step backward. "I'd prefer not to—"

"Do you love her?" Christine asked suddenly. "Forgive me for being forward, Erik, but you should have heard her speak of you, that afternoon before the masqued ball. She put poets to shame."

Erik seemed embarrassed. "Why do you wish to know?" he demanded gruffly. "It's no business of yours whether I love her or not."

"But you made it your business to know whether or not I love Raoul de Chagny," Christine countered immediately. She felt a little breathless. This verbal sparring was unlike her, especially with someone as intimidating as Erik. It was rather…exhilarating.

Erik glowered. "Why is it that every woman I associate with has such damnable curiosity?" he snapped. "It embarrasses me to talk about it. It's a private matter. But yes, I love her, and I have loved her ever since the first moment she said my name. If you must know, child, I love her with a depth and intensity that far surpasses any romantic feelings I ever held toward you."

Christine flinched.

"But you mustn't think I care for you any less," he said quickly. "You are the daughter of my mind. You are Erik's protégée, his Galatea that he sculpted from clay."

Christine shook her head, feeling a little overwhelmed by it all.

Erik pressed on, stumbling a little over his choice of pronouns. "When Erik—_I_—I look at you and _I_ see promise, hope. And I feel that my life may have been worth something, to bring you up out of the sucking mud of your own melancholy into the bright lights of glorious song. You have always deserved to look people in the eye, my dear—never to shy away and shrivel. And now tell me, once and for all—will you listen to Erik's plan, and accept his help?"

Christine sighed, and very nearly reached a hand out to touch his arm. She withdrew it at the last moment, still cowardly at heart. "What help did you have in mind, Erik?" she asked quietly.

* * *

Tora finally felt bad enough to go after Christine, and even though she was embarrassed and uncomfortable, thought that she might at least provide some comfort by listening.

About to turn a corner, she heard soft voices that sounded far too familiar for her comfort. Some dreadful instinct made her stop just before coming around, and she leaned against the wall, listening and keeping out of sight.

"You really think it will work?" she heard Christine ask breathlessly. Tora felt the old jealousy well up in spite of herself—Christine's voice was so lyrical, so lilting, even in speech. She was like a wood-nymph, stealing Tora's man away. But surely she had been mistaken. Surely that wasn't really _Erik_ she was speaking to...

"It may, or it may not," Erik's voice said calmly, unmistakably—and Tora felt a rush of blood to her head, a sudden wash of heat mixed with rage, but still she stayed frozen in place, unable to move a muscle. "At the very least, you will have funds to further your career and support both you and your aging matron Valerius for some time…"

Tora exerted all her effort and peeled herself away from the wall, finally coming around the corner. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew that this didn't concern her, that it wasn't what she thought it was, that it was some private matter between Erik and Christine that she shouldn't intrude upon, but she was _engaged_ to Erik now, for heaven's sakes. Besides, this was _Christine,_ who he had worshipped—he had _said _he was done with her, done completely, and the waves of jealousy and anger almost made Tora blind.

She simply stood there, and let her fingers curl around the bend in the wall so tightly and fiercely that her nails felt as though they might crack. Christine's mouth was open in a shocked O, and Erik didn't even look in Tora's direction.

"It isn't what you think," said Christine, her face absolutely scarlet. "I didn't even know he was here, until…"

Tora looked at Erik, her eyes like daggers. Finally he looked at her, but didn't say a word.

"You _ass_…you horrible, _insufferable_ man…" she bit out, nearly choking on the tears welling up behind her eyes. "Shall I tell you what she said about you, at her house, things you never heard?" She made her voice breathy and mocking, high-pitched. " 'Oh, I feel dreadful, but he's so ugly! I can't imagine what I should do if he were to _kiss_ me…I think I should faint!'"

"Tora, no!" Christine gasped.

Erik stiffened a little, and opened and closed his fists repeatedly.

"I _knew_ it," Tora snapped. "Look at you…you liar! You have feelings for her still. Don't deny it!"

"Tora, he was helping me," Christine said, her voice anguished. "Helping me so that I can marry Raoul."

Tora stood still for a moment, blinking. "Oh," she said stupidly.

"I think I've overstayed my cue," said Erik smoothly, fiddling a little with his cape. "Christine, dear…I shall handle the matter as soon as possible. _You_," he said darkly, pointing to Tora, "are coming with me."

"Oh_, really_," said Tora, but it lacked conviction. "And what about rehearsal?"

"Damn rehearsal to Hades," said Erik. "You've been a perfect minx just now, and I won't stand to watch you all day, waiting until the evening to tell you off. It would drive me mad. Christine, if you don't see either of us again within five minutes, would you be good enough to tell Mme. Gervais that Tora is ill?"

"I…I…" Christine stammered.

"She has gone to see a friend, who knows a good doctor," said Erik calmly. "Tell her that. And make sure that little prissy Suzette doesn't poke into it."

"Suzette is _not_ a prissy," Tora snapped. Erik ignored her and grabbed her arm, pulling her into the shadows of a nearby side passage.

"Erik…" she whispered furiously, but he whirled around before she could say anything else.

"You jealous little thing_,_" he snapped. "Did it ever occur to you how stupid, how impossibly greedy and low I should be to try to win _Christine_ back when I have you already, engaged to be married to me in two weeks? Think on it, now…think hard…"

Tora breathed heavily. "I'm sorry," she said in a small voice, "but it was only natural when I heard your voices, to think…"

"You didn't think!" he roared, and pinned her hands above her head to the wall. "You made a complete ass of yourself, you beautiful little fool. Don't you know how I crave you, how mad I would be to want anyone else now that I have secured your favor? _Especially_ Christine…who is frightened to death of me, I daresay…"

Tora swallowed, feeling that inexplicably erotic thrill again.

"Mad Tora," he whispered. "Mad, lovely, ridiculous Tora…" He was warm again, frightfully warm, and his body pressed hers against the wall, like something out of one of Suzette's racy little novels that she kept hidden under her pillow and occasionally let Tora read.

"A man still has his pride, you know," he said between his teeth, "even one such as myself, and even if he no longer has feelings for the woman who insults him. Of course it hurt, to hear those words you claimed she said, and to hear her practically affirm it by reacting the way she did! But it doesn't mean that I still harbor any romantic sentiments toward her, you insufferable wench! If you had been using your common sense…"

"Stop it," Tora said, squirming a little. "Just _stop_. I already feel stupid enough, without your rubbing salt in the wound."

He sighed. "Erik is not being a gentleman to his lady," he said. "Forgive me."

Tora forced down the still-churning anger and accepted it gracefully. "Duly forgiven," she said resignedly. "Forgive me, for jumping to conclusions?"

"I already have," he said. "Oh, darling…it's only that I couldn't bear to see her so upset. She is a dear girl, in spite of all her faults, and I knew that I could help her…"

"Yes, yes," sighed Tora, not wanting to hear another word about Christine at the moment."You needn't explain."

"But..." Erik began.

She put her hand over his mouth. "I believe you," she said. "You really do have a tender heart, Erik, in spite of all your efforts to hide it."

He drew back a little, seeming embarrassed. "You ought to go back, now," he said gruffly. "Run, before Christine tells that old dame you're sick. I'll tell you all about what I talked over with Christine when you're finished, if you really want to know."

Tora threw her arms around him. "I really am sorry I overreacted," she said, and meant it. "Oh, God, you don't know what it did to me, to hear you speaking to her, but even so, I was a perfect little beast."

"Yes, but so was I," he replied quickly. "I didn't mean to snap at you so…it was only that I was dreadfully embarrassed about the whole thing…you catching me with Christine, thinking things…I was going to tell you about the whole affair, when I saw you again. I would not have kept it from you that she and I had taken up acquaintance again, or why."

Somehow Tora slightly doubted that, considering Erik's love of privacy and secrecy, but she decided not to dispute it.

* * *

"Daaé looks as though she might be sick," Suzette commented. "What ever did you talk about?"

"Nothing of consequence," muttered Tora.

"You know," said Suzette suddenly, "this is entirely off the subject, but I heard something about your Irish boy last night."

Tora sighed, not sure she really cared. "What did you hear?"

"Are you sure you want to know?"

Tora glanced at Suzette. "Is it something I wouldn't _want_ to know?"

"Two somethings, actually," said Suzette. "One of them slightly amusing if a tad unsavory, the other slightly disturbing."

"Tell me," said Tora, putting a hand to her temple. She had felt a headache coming all day, ever since she had woken up so early and been unable to sleep again.

"The first," Suzette said with a little giggle, "is that he bedded Lise, and was absolutely _terrible._"

Tora looked up sharply, not sure whether to laugh or roll her eyes. "I can believe that," she said. "Although you know how the girls are with their gossip—he might not have bedded anyone at all."

"That's beside the point," said Suzette in a whisper, when Mme. Gervais began staring them down with her hawk-like gaze. "After he did…or didn't, whichever really happened…he disappeared. And _that _one is true."

Tora snorted. "Not likely," she said. "He probably got drunk and is lying around in some corner, sleeping it off."

"No one's seen him," said Suzette. "It's as if he vanished into thin air."

Tora tried to shake off her feeling of unease. "Suzette, you know how gossip—" And then it hit her like a thunderbolt.

_Would Erik…actually…_

No. Of course he wouldn't.

Would he?

She remembered suddenly, how drunk she had been last night, how she had let slip the encounter between herself and Patrick on the ship, how dreadfully furious Erik had looked…

She went through rehearsal woodenly, and prayed all the while that her suspicions were false.

* * *

**A/N: For those unfamiliar with Greek mythology (or more contemporary variations on it), Galatea refers to the story of the artist Pygmalion, who crafted a sculpture of a beautiful woman. Pygmalion fell in love with his sculpture, and moved by his passion, Aphrodite eventually changed the statue into flesh and blood and caused it to come to life. Because of Galatea's naïve, limited knowledge of the world around her, Pygmalion had to teach her everything and in a nutshell make her into a "real" woman, in mentality as well as appearance. Erik compares himself to Pygmalion when he calls Christine his Galatea, because of the fact that he "created" her, in a sense, by tapping into her talent, and gave her the prowess and knowledge to be a truly great singer—a "real" singer, one might say. **

**Also, a quick grammar lesson: the word "should" was originally put to far more use than it is today as the past or conditional tense of "shall," rather than a word meaning "obligated." So, for example, when Tora quotes Christine as saying, "I can't imagine what I should do if he were to kiss me," it doesn't mean, "I can't imagine what I **_**ought to**_** do," but rather more along the lines of, "I can't imagine what I **_**would**_** do." The word "shall/should," however, carries a much more nebulous, ambiguous connotation than "will/would," which is why it works far better in non-definite, what-if scenarios. As to interpreting for yourself whether "should" means "ought" or "would" in a sentence, just consider the context.**


	42. Smoldering Embers

**A/N: Dear ones, I am sorry this took so long. What with moving again, dealing with a speedily crawling almost-toddler, and a fair amount of procrastinating, this got delayed far longer than it should have.**

**Some of the earliest chapters are still due for a big, big overhaul; I just need to find the time and those rare moments of quiet peace for their revision. **

* * *

She knew he was there, when rehearsal ended. She could feel his eyes on her, but the doubt in her mind about Patrick's disappearance caused her to feel slightly violated rather than flattered.

She felt a telltale sensuous slide of awareness, and paused at a certain spot near the left wing, waiting.

As though on cue, his white hand slithered out from behind a curtain, brushing against her arm. The little hairs on her flesh stood up, and she grabbed his fingers, allowing herself to be pulled into the dark against her better judgment.

"Erik," she whispered, "I…" His arm around her waist made all thoughts temporarily flee, however, and her hands crept up his lapels, feeling him. He seemed more solid than usual, less ethereal and brittle, and there was a spring-loaded tension in his muscles that seemed poised to leap free at any moment.

She pressed her face against his shirt, feeling him shiver with pleasure. His hands buried themselves in her hair, running the weight of it through his fingers. "Oh, I love you," he said, like a fervent prayer, and she closed her eyes.

"I heard something," she said, leaning away a little. "About…someone I know."

"Ah?" he queried quietly. "And what—and who—might that be?"

"Be honest with me," she said. "Be honest…don't lie, or I'll never forgive you…do you know anything about…Patrick disappearing?"

He was very still for a moment. Silence reigned, while she waited. But nothing came.

"Answer me this," she choked out, nearly in tears as she backed away. "Is he…_dead_, or hurt in any way?"

Still Erik didn't move. "No," he said stiffly.

"Do you know where he is?" she demanded.

Erik sighed. "_Why_, child," he said tiredly, "why, why should it matter? He is safe. He is unharmed. That is all you need know."

"_Tell me,_" she snarled, grabbing his coat and shaking him. He slapped her hands away.

"Dare to manhandle me like that again," he said dangerously, "and you'll get more than you bargained for, _ma fille._ You think I'll stand for it, do you, because you're a woman, or because I care for you? Do you? You would be wise not to try and—"

"Where is he, Erik?" Tora whispered. "What did you _do_ to him?"

"I drugged him with chloroform and shipped him off on the nearest boat to America, after bribing the captain," Erik snapped, and then, with a touch of pride, "And I did it all in the space of two hours. There! Are you happy?"

Tora's mouth opened. She stared at his outline in the dimness, feeling her cheeks burn with outrage.

"Why?" she breathed. "Why on earth would you do such a dirty-handed, low thing? I didn't even get to say good-bye—"

"Good-byes are overrated," said Erik, rolling his eyes. "Only sloppy sentimentals and people who are in love say them. You're not in love with him, are you? You told me you aren't…unless you lied. And as for sloppy sentimentality…"

Tora clenched her teeth, fighting the urge to strike him. "He could be hurt…he won't even know where he _is…_"

"I inserted a letter into the pocket of his trousers explaining everything," Erik said smoothly. "As well as a substantial sum of money so that he might be able to make his way home once he docks in the United States."

"And that just makes it all right, does it?" snapped Tora, although—truth be told—it did relieve her a little, _if_ he was telling the truth. But she wasn't about to excuse it merely because of that. "You…oh, God, you_ maniac!_" She turned on her heel and stormed out from behind the curtains, ignoring his strained pleas for her to stay.

* * *

Late afternoon found Tora lying on her stomach in bed, barely moving.

"My fault," she groaned over and over, grinding her palms against her forehead to stave off the returning headache. "_Mon Dieu, _all my bloody fault."

The other girls largely ignored her, thinking it was _beau_ troubles. They knew from experience that "Margot" was an intensely private person, unless it was with people she knew well, and so not even Sophie bothered her for gossip.

Suzette sat down on the edge of the bed, and put a hand on Tora's shoulder. "_Amie,_" she said uncertainly, "are you all right?"

"Never better," said Tora without conviction.

Suzette handed Tora a letter. "Here," she said. "It's for you."

Tora put the pillow over her head. "If it's from _him_, I don't want it," she said. "The lettering is probably bright red, isn't it, sloppy and scrawling?"

"No," said Suzette slowly. "It's jet-black, very fancy. Scrolled, rather than scrawling, I'd say."

Tora sat bolt upright in bed. "What?" she gasped, and grabbed the envelope from Suzette's outstretched fingers. "_Perdonne-moi_," she mumbled, seeing the look of slight discontent on her friend's face at such rudeness. She examined the envelope.

"Why, it's from Aunt Agnes," she exclaimed in surprise, and opened it eagerly, her eyes scanning the page as fast as she could read—which wasn't terribly fast, especially as Aunt had written the letter in English.

_Dear Tora,_

_I write to you now with the utmost urgency—I held Constance off for as long as I could, but she has gone to your Irish boy's parents, and told them what she knows, with quite a bit of her own sinister (and completely untrue) embellishments. They are furious—the police, fortunately, think the whole thing a bit of a joke and have taken no action (despite his parent's enraged attempts) to notify the powers-that-be in France to nab the pair of you and bring you back. They (his parents) have written to Patrick, with no response, and they have developed the silliest ideas about his fate (no thanks to your ridiculous cousin)—anything from being dead, to being deathly ill, to having eloped with you and fathering a child! His mother moans about how you might have murdered him—although I tried to instill upon her the ridiculousness of such a notion—and his father goes on and on about his son being "ruined" and "bringing shame" on the family by running off with a dancer (I'm quite indignant on your behalf about their pigheaded attitude, but unfortunately it persists, even with the noblest efforts to convince them otherwise). If Patrick is there with you, have him write to his parents posthaste and assure them that he is safe and well—or better yet, send the poor boy home!_

_Write to me as well, at any rate, and tell me all the goings-on. I have not heard from you since you departed, and I am very anxious for your welfare._

_All my love,_

_Aunt Agnes_

Tora put a hand to her head. "Oh, dear," she muttered, wanting to laugh at the absurdity of the situation, but feeling more inclined to cry.

* * *

Tora ran down the hall, intending to beg someone for a pen and paper.

Suddenly Erik stepped in front of her, and she stopped short, so quickly that she nearly slipped. "Dear God," she exclaimed. "What are you thinking? It's still day—"

He grabbed her arm and pulled her into a nearly hidden side passage. "I want to spend time with my betrothed," he said, ignoring her attempts to wrench his hand from her arm. His grip was firm and immovable, almost painful.

"My aunt wrote to me," she said. "Patrick's parents are worried sick! If only you had left him here a little while longer, he might have written to them and told them he was all right. But now he'll be on a ship for at least a fortnight, if not longer—and—"

"Hang their concern," he snapped. "And hang that boy! Why did you have to bring him here in the first place?"

"He was my protection," she retorted. "Would you rather I had traveled alone?"

Erik grabbed his head with both hands and clenched his teeth. "You should have sent him home the moment you arrived."

"Yes, I suppose I should have," Tora said angrily. "Heaven forbid he anger the almighty Opera Ghost! Why, he's lucky to have escaped with his skin intact!" Her tone was sarcastic and biting.

Erik wrapped a long hand around her neck before she could blink, grasping it lightly but dangerously. Tora blanched and shrank back, but he pressed her against the wall, his fingers icy and iron-like.

_Your answer to everything, isn't it—show your power, frighten people, make others feel small and helpless. _She thought it, over and over, but she didn't dare say it out loud.

He seemed to be struggling with himself a little, and after a few moments he let go of her throat with a jerk of his hand. He gave a wheeze of air, as though he had been holding his breath, and his hand dropped limply to his side.

"Erik is sorry," he said dully. "Sorry for…deceiving you." It sounded as though this little speech was costing his pride dearly. "Sorry for…for…"

Tora waited.

"Sending…him…away," he managed, as though each word were a large piece of gristly meat, difficult to chew and just as hard to swallow. "I did it for _us_, you know…"

"Oh, spare me," Tora snapped, before she could stop herself. "You did it for _you_, you mean…so that you wouldn't have to imagine me sneaking off to play you false, or think to find him meddling in your affairs. You trust me so little, Erik…all these ideas you get, they're so _stupid_…"

"Be silent," Erik demanded brusquely, his voice simmering with renewed rage. "If you had lived Erik's life…seen what he has seen…heard what he has heard…had his experiences…you might not be so quick to judge his suspicions, his so-called rash actions, his obsessions! You would understand that I am wary of my good fortune still, that at any moment I expect it all to vanish, or be dashed to pieces—and that I am prepared to do anything within my long reach to make sure that it does not! _That_ is why I sent him away—not for such a simple mundanity like jealousy, or pettiness! I saw in him the potential for the destruction of my newfound happiness, the explosion of my bitter hope! You _say_ you would not be his wife or lover, and yet he is young and handsome, and symbolizes a better, warmer life—not with _him_, perhaps, but with any young, handsome man—for you could have your pick of them, if you wished. The thought terrifies me, darling, it strangles me with an ice-cold band, just as my fingers nearly strangled you a moment ago—but I never would have done _that_, you know, never gone through with it…it was hasty, a bad habit, a byproduct of anger, nothing more, but I…I shall take great pains to ensure it does not happen again. I am such a dreadful ghoul, my dear, a wicked, sneaking devil!"

Tora leaned her head against the cold wall, sighing. "Erik…I…I have to confess something."

"What? _What?_" he demanded, his body tensing.

She raised her eyes to meet his, two glimmers in the dimness of the passage. "I'm a little more afraid of you than I've let on. Not all the time, but…"

"Most people are," he said, gritting his teeth. "Is that all you wanted to say?"

"No," she said, and it was a little hard for her to breathe. "It all makes me wonder…it makes me seriously doubt…whether marriage to you would truly be an intelligent or worthwhile undertaking."

There was silence for a moment, suffocating silence. Tora felt a hot wash of fear—hadn't he just _said_ he would do anything to keep her with him? What if, feeling threatened, he imprisoned her, or killed someone, or…

Erik gave a little sob of air. "Oh, if only you would smile at Erik," he whispered, tracing the shape of her cheek with his hand—in the air, not quite touching her skin, like an invisible caress. She fought the instinct to shy backwards from it, keeping herself perfectly still. "If only you knew how badly I really wished I could change…" He let out a tortured groan, and put his head in his hands.

"Your nature," she said slowly, "is understandable—identifiable, even, but…I'm not sure even I can manage to—"

"I'll make you happy—I swear it," he said feverishly, kneeling on the floor and clasping her hands, looking up at her with all the earnestness of a dog hoping for a table scrap. Tora wanted to cry.

"Give me a chance, give your Erik a chance, he will make you happy, so happy, you'll see," he whispered into her hands. "Please, oh please."

She realized all at once, with a touch of horror and pity, that this had been Christine's position, Christine's dilemma—she remembered all too well the slightly younger singer's fevered account of what had taken place underground—only, Christine had not had the benefit of already harboring love towards him. Christine had not been able to bring herself to say no to his pathetic, desperate pleas—granted, she was far more weak-willed than Tora, but Tora knew that she herself, for all her doubts and fears, could not refuse him any more than Christine could. And it was not because of lack of will to do so. She felt that familiar tug in her body and heart, the insistent pull of strange but unmistakable love, even as she tussled with her immense disquiet. Her fingers crept unbidden to his sparse hair and began running over the top of his skull, carefully avoiding the corners of the mask at first. Soon enough, however, she couldn't stand it any longer. She peeled it off and flung it a little distance away, amidst a few half-hearted protests on his part, so that she could press her forehead against his and pretend that for once, there were no secrets between them.

_I want so badly for everything to work itself out. It has to. It must. I love him, don't I?_

"Promise me, Erik," she murmured. "Promise me you'll speak to me first before doing anything rash again, before doing anything…you think I might not like. Then we may survive these next two weeks and make it to the marriage altar. Agreed?"

In response he found her mouth and pressed it to his own. She felt, emanating from all around him, the sort of hunger that came not from lust, but from a deep-seated need for closeness, for affection. He gave a deep, shuddering sigh and they knelt together for a while, their arms entwined, their breaths mingled and merging into one unified shiver of air.

* * *

"So," said Suzette, when Tora reappeared in the dormitories, "any news?"

"Regarding Patrick, or my pending marriage?" Tora asked, stripping off her ballet slippers and hanging them on the bedpost.

Suzette gave a little shudder. "Well…either, really. Although I was fishing for news about the Irish boy."

"He has a name. A name!" Tora snapped. "Why everyone refers to him almost solely by his ancestry, rather than his given, Christian _name_…_Mon Dieu,_ it's enough to drive me mad!"

Suzette put her hands palm up in defensive apology. "I'm sorry…it's just habit!"

Tora sighed. "Forgive me, _mon amie,_" she said. "I'm rather testy today, _non?_ But it's for a good reason…men can be utterly infuriating."

She paused. "And what's even more infuriating," she said with clenched teeth, "is that insidious way they have of melting a woman's anger into tolerant, calm butter…make us forget we were ever angry with them, make us feel _sorry_ for them…"

"Let me guess," Suzette muttered. "Your spectral paramour did just that?"

Tora rolled her eyes. "The less you know about _him,_ the better," she said. "Trust me. His life is one long string of dark secrets, sugar-coated lies and underhanded dealings."

"But you're still going to marry him?" Suzette queried with a raised eyebrow.

"_Oui_, that's the plan—mad, isn't it?" said Tora tiredly. "I'd rather not talk about that at the moment, if you don't mind. Let my mind be anywhere but on Erik."

Suzette looked as though she wanted very badly to say something, but held herself back at the last moment. "Did you find out anything about Patrick's _mysteeerious_ disappearance?" she asked, with a little mock-frightened wiggle of her hands.

Tora groaned. "Oh, _that_," she said. "Pray don't even start me on _that_. He's on a ship, apparently…safe, from what I hear…going back to America." _And that is all she need know,_ Tora thought grimly.

"Oh," said Suzette, looking surprised and even a little let down for a moment. She blinked, and then shrugged. "It's…it's probably for the best…after all, he never did learn a spit-lick of comprehensible French."

Tora pursed her lips and grabbed a hairbrush, working on her tangles with vicious vigor.

* * *

The next few days went by without a word from Erik.

Tora was almost relieved at first, but then began to worry, and worrying made her feel almost sick. When four days had passed, she had driven herself into a sort of panicked frenzy, barely sleeping, hardly eating, and not doing very well at rehearsal at all. Mme. Gervais pulled her aside that morning and calmly but firmly suggested that she take a short holiday. "The production is nearly at hand, and in different circumstances I would say we cannot spare you…but we have had a few new additions to our troupe, and your brief loss will be unfortunate, but not detrimental, especially as you haven't a large role in this particular opera. I think you ought to rest. Recuperate from whatever it is that affects you so. I can't have one of my best dancers ruining the production."

Eyes burning with unshed tears, Tora fled to the dormitories.

Her hands tore at her bound-up hair, letting it fly down long and loose, though tangled as ever. She shook it out, and ran the convoluted mass of it over her hands, trying to sort out the worst kinks and knots.

She reveled in the silence of the large, deserted room, glad for the time to herself, but she wondered privately what on earth she could do while barred from working on the production—the thought made fresh resentment rise in the back of her throat, like bile.

An insidious little wisp of wickedness came to her—_Stay with Erik_—that made her giggle derisively, but then she choked on it, remembering the whole source of her distraction—his absence—in the first place.

"I will _not_ go down in the dank and the dark to seek him out," she muttered aloud. "I _won't!_"

"That's good," said a silky voice behind her, making her nearly jump out of her skin. "The underground house is in a dreadful state of disarray at the moment."

Tora whipped around. "_You!_" she sobbed accusingly, but with a crushing sense of relief. "Oh, _you!_" She threw her arms around him and he gladly returned the gesture, if a little awkwardly. "What on earth _possessed _you to stay away from me for so long?" she demanded through her teeth, her voice muffled by his shirt.

He laughed delightedly. "Had Erik known he would garner _this _sort of reception, he might have stayed away even longer."

She pushed away from him irritably. "You didn't answer. What on earth have you been doing? Why didn't you come see me? Why not even a word, or a note?"

"I get wrapped up in my work," he said. "I lost track of the time. Besides…"

"_Four days?_" she said incredulously.

He shrugged. "Once I went for ten days without sleeping a wink, while working on a symphony."

"So it was music that kept you away, then? You ignored me because you were writing a damned _symphony?_" she demanded.

He tsked. "Watch your language. No, it wasn't music that had me so engrossed, this time. It was…something else. Something that ought to make you happy. You won't be ashamed of me when we go out, at least."

Tora was taken slightly aback. "I never was. What on earth are you talking about?"

He giggled a little. "You'll see. I'm proud of it! But not yet, you can't see it yet. It isn't finished."

Tora sighed. "What _is _it?"

"Ah, you'll see," he said. "I daren't tell you yet. Don't worry, you goose, it isn't anything horrible—your face paled for a moment, I wish you wouldn't look at me like that, I wish you would trust me…"

"You're acting…odd," she said. "I don't like it when you act odd. It makes me uncomfortable."

"Whatever do you mean by 'odd'?" he demanded.

"No, well, it's just…sometimes, like now, you're all twitchy, you speak in ridiculously long, rambling strings, and you jump from one place to another like a frenzied frog," Tora muttered. "That is…you're really like that for the _most_ part, but there are times when it's far more extreme than others. _That's_ what I mean by 'odd…'"

He seemed to become rather sullen for a moment. "Envelopment, deep involvement, acts as a sort of drug to me, you might say," he muttered. "My senses go giddy. They spiral in great, winding loops. This mainly happens when I am…fanatically focused on something…or some_one_," he added as a bold little afterthought, twirling a stray strand of her hair with one finger.

Tora raised an eyebrow. "Indeed, I seem to remember that Christine told me…" she began, but Erik fixed her with a look, and she fell silent.

"I heard about your fall from grace with Mme. Gervais, by-the-by," he said. "I'd be lying if I said I'd like to have a cross word with her. I'd like to shake her hand, in fact, but I daresay she might never teach ballet again for fright."

"_What?_" Tora demanded. "Why on earth are you pleased? I thought you were concerned with keeping my dancing career as intact and consistent as possible!"

"You've been working too hard," he said. "You're tired, I can see it in your body, in your face. Your eyes don't look nearly as becoming with dark circles beneath them, you know."

"_You're_ one to talk, O.G.," snapped Tora, twitching away from him irritably. "Besides, I was worried sick about you."

He cleared his throat uncomfortably. "At any rate," he said, "it means you'll be able to spend more time with _me_. I'm quite selfish, you know, so—"

"If you were worried about _that_," Tora shot back, "why did you stay away for four days?"

"I _told_ you," he groused, "I was working on something. _I lost track of the time!_"

Tora gritted her teeth, and then, almost ready to pick another fight, abruptly decided to let it drop. Quarreling with Erik was far too exhausting; she was already half-dead from lack of sleep.

She sighed. Her eyes fluttered downward towards the floor, but stopped short halfway, fixating on the knees of his trousers, and then traveling upwards to his thighs.

For a moment she felt as though she were floating in limbo, caught between heaven and hell. There was an awful sort of indecision wrestling inside her bones. It _would_ have to be his legs which had set her off; they always had been the source of a strangely continuing erotic fascination. She hadn't let herself think much about it prior to noticing them at this approximate moment, but now the moral dilemma was raging like a bull.

_Go to my wedding night with virginity intact, until the moment of revelation—or consummate a little earlier than planned?_

A torrid blush began creeping up the back of her neck, making her whole head feel hot and prickly. She could feel it spreading to her cheeks, but didn't bother to hide it.

Even if he did notice her blush, however, there was no sense in letting him know that she was feeling as amorous as Venus, or that she was ogling his _jambes_. She quickly transferred the focus of her gaze to his chin instead.

How she wished she were speaking with Suzette, instead! She could tell Suzette anything. Suzette was so knowledgeable about everything; not a day went by when she wasn't picking up new bits of information from borrowed books or gossip's tongues. _She_ might know why Tora was feeling as shamefully lusty as a schoolyard boy. Tora had had her fair share of desire, but this was ridiculous. It had been building and building in her for days now, like a coiled spring; she had thought only men were ever thus consumed. Was it _normal_ for her to feel so…so…explosive?

She was angry at him for leaving her without explanation; she was still residually jealous of his continuing interest in Christine, no matter how fatherly his intentions were supposed to be; she was fatigued and on edge, almost ready to combust. All this had snowballed with her pent-up desire into a kind of superhuman bundle of sharp tension.

She knew she wasn't ready for marriage _just_ yet, not the legally binding commitment which would render her his for good, but…for some ridiculous reason, she felt more than ready for what she privately referred to as "_It._" But only if she wasn't so torn by her own principles. Was it only silly code and custom she was adhering to, or was there true value in waiting? Wouldn't it be better to just…get the first time over with now, without the pressure and awkwardness that would surely come were it to happen on the wedding night?

She didn't know. She _did_ know, however, that Erik was likely as jangled and frayed as she was about the whole thing, and if she were to indeed give in to this mad urge, then there would be no frittering. She had been briefly toying with the idea of doing certain things she had heard about, things that were undoubtedly unladylike but wouldn't involve actually violating her sanctity—but she had a distinct feeling, borne from that strange connection between them, that Erik would never tolerate it. It would have to be all or nothing.

"You've got a glazed look," Erik said uncomfortably. "I don't like it when you look like that. It makes you look like some vapid ballet rat."

Tora chewed the inside of her cheeks. "I _am_ a ballet rat, you goose," she said.

"Not really," he said. "Not like _them._ Besides, I heard tell that you are the prime candidate for replacing La Sorelli when she finally decides to retire. That hardly makes you a rat."

She giggled. "Silly rumors, idle gossip," she said. "How long do you want our honeymoon to be?"

He twitched a little in surprise. "Why the devil would you bring that up at _this_ moment?" he asked quietly, fiddling nervously with his shirt cuff.

"You seem to forget," Tora said calmly, "that our wedding, as you've planned it, is in a little over a week. High time, I'd say, for ironing out the little details."

Erik ran his hand over the top of his head, his whole body stiff and awkward.

"For example," Tora said with a little bit of righteous outrage, "you promised me a very lovely dress. But time is fast running out to procure one by the arranged date."

"Erik is sorry," he mumbled. "I was so wrapped up in this wonderful thing, this fantastic new idea…you will understand, when you see it, I promise."

"Show me," said Tora, flipping her long hair behind her back with one hand. So irritating, when the untidy curls brushed against her face…

"What?" he asked. "My idea?"

"Yes," she said. "Take me down there, show me this new thing you have, if you want to, and we can…discuss things. Things that _need_ to be discussed."

"But I…oh, _very well,_" he said with a sigh, and held out his hand. She placed her fingers on it gently and felt a warm little buzz of pleasure when he wrapped his cool fingers around her own.

"Careful, now," he whispered, gesturing to the hall, and pulled her silently and quickly out of the dormitories and into the darkness of the nearby secret way, down, down.


	43. Rising Tide

**A/N: I know I said quite a while back that this was nearing its end, but to be honest, I'm not entirely certain that's true anymore (in fact, I'm becoming increasingly certain that it isn't). We'll just have to see where the story takes me – it's always had something of a life of its own. **

**I've enjoyed seeing the results of the poll, by the way...I'll leave it up until I post Ch. 44, which hopefully shouldn't be _too_ long away from now, as I've already pre-written quite a bit of it. **

* * *

Her hand was warm in his, so warm it made his breath hitch. The softness of her skin sent little shivers up his spine. For the thousandth time, he imagined what the rest of her might feel like, if merely her hand could feel so good wrapped inside his fingers.

The walls were slimy and cold, hardly something to press her up against…still, he found himself wanting badly to kiss her at this very moment, and was briefly wondering if—

Suddenly he stopped dead.

Tora clutched his arm uncertainly. He felt a little shiver of delight, to be the protector rather than the ghoul, but pushed it back to keep his senses more keenly aware. Every nerve strained; his whole body was on alert.

"What is it?" she whispered.

He patted her hand. "We're not alone," he murmured. She stiffened and pressed herself instinctively against him, and he gritted his teeth even as he felt that little shiver again. The way her bosom molded perfectly into the hollow of his waist was dreadfully distracting.

"Who could be following us?" she whispered. "What kind of people live down here?"

"So many hid and never resurfaced when the Communards—" Erik began in a low voice, but then he spotted the source of their discomfort, and the tension in his body melted into a kind of sullen anger. "_You_ again!" he snapped, making Tora jump with fright.

The shape in the shadows started, as if surprised to be caught.

Erik grabbed a torch from the wall and held it up so that Tora could spy the intruder as well. "Come out," he said, "come out, now, daroga, where we can see you more clearly."

Tora gasped. "Oh!" she said. "Him!"

"Yes…me," the Persian said, sounding embarrassed. "Emil bin-Fassad, at your service, _mademoiselle_, but you may call me _daroga_ if you wish, like my friend here."

"Friend is a loose term," said Erik. "I don't believe you've met my fiancée, daroga…go on, introduce yourself, my dear." He pushed Tora forward a little bit, and she gave him a glare before turning to the Persian and curtseying just a little. She regarded the man for a moment. Erik couldn't read her—what was she thinking about?

"Tora Preston," she said, holding out her hand. Emil paused for a moment, and then smiled. "Ah, this quaint Western custom you have—it has taken me a little while and much mortification to get used to." He took her hand and lightly kissed it, his lips barely brushing her skin.

Erik could have sworn he caught a faint blush spreading on Tora's cheeks. _Ridiculous. It must be a trick of the light._

"I…if you don't mind my saying so, you have a perfectly lovely name," she said with a little embarrassment. "I've never heard anything quite like it before."

Emil laughed. "Thank you, _mademoiselle,_" he said genially.

"How would they call me in your language?" she asked. Erik's fingers twitched. She was entirely too comfortable with the man.

Emil smiled. "We would call you by your name, of course, perhaps with a profound accent. But if I were to give you a Persian name, I think it would be _Haifa,_ for you are slender and beautiful."

Erik couldn't believe it. She _was _blushing, and with good reason this time! The nerve of that Persian fool—

"Come here, Tora," he said, very quietly and dangerously. Emil was already looking a little jarred and nervous, as well he should. Apparently he had forgotten whose fiancée he was speaking to.

Tora shot a glance at Erik and her face paled. "Oh, Erik, he didn't mean anything by—"

"Didn't he?" Erik snapped. "Enamored comments aside, you might as well explain your purpose here, daroga…come, now, confess. You've been following, in your spying, prying, suspicious way, to see if this lovely young woman is under duress. You think me a very low snake, don't you? A damnable dog…any woman that might be with me is quite obviously in my proximity against her will…is that not so, daroga?"

Emil blinked. "_Is_ she here against her will?" he asked coolly, looking pointedly at Tora.

She raised an eyebrow, but said nothing—nothing! Was she baiting Emil, trying to see what his reaction would be if she let him draw his own conclusions? Had she lost her mind?

Erik growled and grabbed her arm, sweeping her against his side. "We are engaged to be married, daroga," he said. "Of her own free will."

"Her own free will, in truth, or her own free will because you threatened her if she would not agree?" asked the Persian, his voice beginning to rise in volume.

Tora pushed at Erik. "Let _go_, you fool," she muttered, too low for anyone but him to hear. "You're hurting me."

Erik ignored her, although his grip loosened just a little. "Ask her yourself," he snarled. "Perhaps we should show you. Should we show the gentleman, my dear?"

Tora pried his fingers from her arm when he loosened his grip a bit further. "Show him _what?_"

Erik paused, and then quickly and lightly ran a finger over her bottom lip—as he did so, he was reminded of how succulent it was. Tora narrowed her eyes, apparently catching his intent. "Good heavens, no. I'm not making a public spectacle just to prove a point." She glanced sideways at the daroga, who had the odd, frozen look of a man caught in a sticky state of indecision. He half looked as though he wanted to wrench Tora away from Erik's immediate proximity, but seemed as yet unsure just what he was witnessing.

"I'm afraid this whole thing has become rather awkward, Monsieur Fassad," she said dryly. "Frankly, I'm beginning to fear for your safety. You'd better be going, before he decides to do something rash."

Erik felt a bubble of anger, and forced it to subside into mere resentment. "Rash, you say?" he muttered, and then—in a move that sorely violated his better and more proprietary nature—grabbed her by the back of her neck and pressed his lips violently against hers, catching her by the waist with his other free hand.

"Erik!" she shrieked, although it was muffled by his mouth and sounded more like, "Em-inkph!"

"That's enough—enough, do you hear?" shouted the daroga, who Erik saw out of the corner of his eye at last beginning to make a move towards them.

He let go of Tora abruptly. She stumbled back, but still had hold of his lapels.

There was an angry look about her, but her eyes were hooded and her cheeks were fetchingly flushed. Her lips parted a little, swollen just a bit by Erik's aggressive efforts, and there _seemed_ to be a tiny smile fighting at the corners of her mouth. Erik never could understand how she could look like that, how she could emit that deliciously erotic glow after being kissed by such an old, sallow fright as himself—all things considered, however, he certainly wasn't going to complain.

His beloved glanced at the stupefied daroga, who had stopped a short distance away from them, and she giggled a little. Beautiful creature.

"Poor man," she said sympathetically to the staring Persian. "You really don't know what to think, do you?"

"I must confess, I am in a singular state of doubt," muttered Emil, wiping a bit of sweat from his brow with the back of his dark hand.

"Strange as it may seem to you, this girl professes to love me," said Erik dryly, his lips still tingling enjoyably from the violent kiss. _That_ _ought to show you, daroga! _

"And as you don't see her fainting, spitting, or frantically wiping her pretty little mouth," he continued, with a little smirk—he just couldn't help himself!— "I'd have to say you should be inclined to believe her. A giggle is hardly the token reaction of an unwilling paramour after such an embrace, in particular where one such as myself is concerned—_that_, at least, you must concede."

"Indeed," said Tora, giggling _again_. "Oh, I'm sorry, M. Fassad, but the look on your face is so funny! I do assure you my feelings for Erik are genuine, not forced. We marry in less than a fortnight."

Emil stared at her for a moment, then back at Erik. "You must forgive me for asking, Erik…you cannot blame me. Is she…did you hypnotize or drug—"

Tora really laughed this time. That was good, because Erik was now genuinely angry, and her laughter helped him keep it in check.

"We ought to be going, my dear," he said between his teeth. "Before I really do something rash—as you said, so eloquently."

"Very well. I do wish we might have met under more hospitable circumstances," Tora said apologetically to the Persian—dratted man, he was still fixing Erik with a glare and looking back and forth between them as suspiciously as any man in the midst of a deep investigation. Erik wondered what it would take to convince him, after that spectacle.

They regarded each other, Erik and the Persian, warily, like tigers circling each other before a fight. The circumstances might have been entirely different had Tora not been there to fan the flames. The two men would have been able to speak their minds to each other, perhaps shout at each other as they so often had in Mazenderan, but it would have been healthy, and ended in yet another exasperated but tolerant parting. This, however, was different. They were not speaking as friends. The atmosphere crackled with a kind of angry emotion that was almost rivalry. This was no longer a simple matter of making sure that Erik was within his bounds, as it had been with Christine. There was something else at work here, Erik knew…it was obvious that Emil had noticed that Tora was pretty, agonizingly pretty, and intelligent to boot. It was clear to Erik—he could practically read it in the twisted expression on the man's face—that the Persian detective simply could not stomach the fact that a beautiful, bright girl like Tora had _willingly_ attached herself to someone like the Trap-Door Lover, the Angel of Death, the Nameless Horror. The man simply could not fathom it—_small wonder, really_, Erik thought grimly—and being unable to understand the perplexing conundrum, he had become, albeit guardedly, even more hostile than usual.

At the same time, it was the very presence of Tora that kept them both civil, but it was a forced civility, strained, like speaking between clenched teeth. Erik had no doubt that had she disappeared, even for an instant, they would have broken out into—perhaps fatal—fisticuffs on the spot.

Tora inclined her head politely and entwined her soft hand around Erik's arm, her fingers squeezing it just a little. Oh, God, that shiver—it didn't matter that she wasn't touching skin. He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the hot, flooding sensation linger for just a few moments.

_Careful, oh careful, my sweet Tora…_he thought fervently. _You tread dangerous ground when you give your Opera Ghost such seemingly innocent touches. He is weaker than you think, and so intoxicated by your very presence that it would make your pretty cheeks flame scarlet if you knew the full extent of it._ It was something he might have said dared to say aloud, had the daroga not been present.

"Good-bye, Emil," he said curtly, giving a sullen nod. His tone turned a shade more dangerous. "Pray I don't catch you following any further. And thank your lucky stars that the lady is quite good at keeping my violence in check…but you might not be so lucky next time!" There was an echo of the old days. He'd threatened Emil's life before, after all. It was a vaguely serious threat, but only vaguely. Somehow he couldn't imagine ever killing Emil, unless he really overstepped his bounds some day.

"Oh, Erik," Tora sighed, sounding exasperated, and then looked directly at Emil. "It really is quite rude, you know," she said gently, and unexpectedly—something that apparently caught the daroga off guard as well, for he raised his eyebrows in surprise. "M. Fassad, you seem well-intentioned, but for this day at least, kindly leave my betrothed and me to our privacy."

Emil shifted uncomfortably. "My apologies," he said gracefully. "I…"

"I do love him, you know," she broke in smoothly, quietly, with an undertone of warmth. "I love Erik more than either you or he could possibly imagine."

She said it so calmly, so matter-of-factly. There could be no mistaking—not even, Erik was sure, for someone as prone to grasping at straws as Emil, when the man was determined to be right—that there was not a hint of irony or false emotion in her tone. It was full of effortless conviction. Erik knew—he sorely hoped, at any rate—that with that, Emil should be at last convinced that she could not possibly be putting on a meticulously acted show to save her own neck. It was still incredible to he, himself, that the situation stood thus.

"My apologies," the daroga said to her again, his eyes flicking back to Erik briefly, his face showing both a hint of humiliation and pensiveness. "Allah has been good to you, Erik," he said, with a touch of uncertainty nevertheless.

Erik ran a hand silently through Tora's hair, and she closed her eyes. "Fate," Erik said, deliberately rejecting the religious nature of the daroga's statement in order to rankle him, "not Allah, has been good to me. At last."

Emil's eyes wandered back to Tora. Erik suddenly wanted to backhand him, but Tora's fingers squeezed his arm again, just a little, jolting him back to his senses.

Emil regarded the pair for a moment more, and then inclined his head slightly, fading back into the shadows from whence he had followed.

"Thank goodness," Tora muttered, her fingers sliding a bit on Erik's bicep. This time he couldn't stop the shiver, and it ran all through his body—she must have felt it, for she looked at him and smiled some strange, secret female smile.

There was something, he reflected, altogether surreal about the encounter with the Persian, and her declaration. Now that the resentment over Emil's intrusion had just begun to fade, there was a bubbling feeling, strange and unfamiliar, but it was like sinking into a warm, soft blanket. Tora kissed his fingers gently, and his soul felt suddenly and delightfully soothed, like a cat being stroked under a loving master's hand.

* * *

She was a pretty picture, reclining on his divan in front of the fire. He was relieved that he could finally stop looking over his shoulder for that sneaking Persian ass—humiliated into leave-taking or not—and spend time with his beloved in peace, secure in his underground home.

"Interesting man, Emil Fassad," she said airily. "Nosy sort of fellow, isn't he?"

"_bin-_Fassad," corrected Erik, turning his face quickly away so she wouldn't see him grin—man alive, he wouldn't wish the sight of his grin on his worst enemy. Well…perhaps he would, but it was only an idiom.

She rolled her eyes, as he looked back. "_Oui,_" she sighed, with a hint of impatience. "_bin-_Fassad."

He was silent for a moment. It had been gnawing at him, ever since the encounter—it had to be brought up. "You thought he was handsome, didn't you."

Tora glared at him. "What if I did? You needn't lose any sleep over it. I thought his skin was a beautiful color, and I liked his eyes. And I thought his accent and mannerisms were charming. Still, I'd take your silky voice and long frame—even your temper—over his dry, clipped, shifty attitude and smooth skin any day."

"Marvelous," Erik muttered, stabbing the coals viciously with the poker. A little swirl of sparks shot up. "Come now, don't lie to your Erik. You blushed when he kissed your hand and called you _Haifa_—you enjoyed it."

"Very well, Erik," said Tora coolly. "If you want to play this game, I'll play with you. You may find me a formidable opponent."

"What ever do you mean?" he asked irritably.

"Name a pretty girl in the chorus, or the troupe," she said calmly. "Go on…don't be shy. You're a man, after all…you've noticed, I'm sure, Lise's large bosom, or Rosa's dark Spanish eyes. Nothing escapes the notice of the Opera Ghost, after all."

"What are you playing at?" he snapped. "You women and your silly mind games—"

"Just name," Tora said with a hint of ice in her tone, "a pretty girl who works at the Opera House. And Christine _does not _count for anything."

"Why?" he asked, mostly just to spite her.

"Because you know her personally," she said, her eyes like flint. "Go on…don't take all night."

Erik gritted his teeth, and stabbed at the fire again. He thought for a moment. "Not that I really _noticed_," he bit out, "at least, not in the way that _you_ think—but I suppose Giselle du Lac is pretty enough. Empty-headed as a kettle-drum, though, and—"

"If she looked at you," said Tora, with all the carefully held patience of a dormant volcano, "and kissed your hand, and said you were dashing, would you blush?"

Erik's hand tightened around the poker. "No," he said. "I would assume that she was even more empty-headed than I previously surmised."

"Be reasonable, Erik," Tora snapped. "Tell the truth. You would be flattered, wouldn't you, that a pretty girl thought you cut a fine figure?"

He glanced at her. "Believe me," he said calmly, "it is enough that a certain pretty girl tolerates my presence, or touches me at all. I'm still baffled by it."

"Flattered, though?" she pressed.

Erik sighed. "Yes," he said at last, rolling his eyes. "Flattered beyond words. What does this have to do with anything, little bird?"

"Oh, Erik, are you _really_ being dense, or are you taunting me on purpose?" she demanded, standing up with her hands on her hips. "Your Persian friend…he flattered me. It doesn't mean I'd pick him over you, or like you any less because of it. Much the same, I assume, would be the case in your own mind if another girl besides me were to make advances on you. You would be flattered, but you would still prefer me, wouldn't you?" She blushed abruptly. "I'm not vain," she muttered, "merely making a point."

Erik's lips formed an even thinner line than usual. "You've won the argument, _ma fille,_" he said between his teeth. "Go celebrate in the kitchen. Shout hurrah, drink my wine, do whatever pleases you."

"Don't be ridiculous," Tora snapped. "I didn't even want to _have_ this argument, and the fact that you say I've won it gives me no pleasure."

Erik looked at her and raised an eyebrow.

"All right, perhaps just a _tiny_ bit of satisfaction," she admitted in a slightly humiliated tone. "But I'd rather talk about something else now, if you wouldn't mind."

Erik felt slighted, somehow, although he knew he should feel far better now instead of harboring a chip on his shoulder. But that her silly female logic had trumped his own, carefully thought-out…oh, who was he fooling? It didn't matter, not really. Why _should_ it matter?

"You and your stiff pride," Tora sighed finally, almost fondly. She sank back into a corner of the divan. "Besides, why should I drink wine when I have a perfectly good cordial right here that won't make me even faintly drunk? Come and sit with me, would you?"

He couldn't say no, even though he was still straining to think of something he could say, something abominably clever and cutting, that would somehow finish the argument in his favor. But he could think of nothing. Not, at least, as long as he was looking at the curve of her slightly bared shoulder, with the dark hair tumbling around it.

He sat himself at the opposite end of the divan. She regarded him coolly and made no move to be closer beside him; he reasoned that it should probably remain that way, for now.

"There were things, you said, that you wanted to discuss with me," Erik said a little uncomfortably. He still wasn't entirely sure he wanted to know what she had in mind. He had a notion it would either be some long, largely unimportant and sleep-inducing prattle about miscellaneous wedding details, or something really unpleasant.

Tora wiggled a little where she sat reclined, presumably to get comfortable, and he ripped his eyes away from the slight gyration of her hips. Nothing good could come from noticing every little unintentionally sensuous move she made, not when they were alone, and yet unwed. He was determined to behave like a gentleman, even if this damned proximity and convenience of location drove him mad.

"I'm not entirely sure," he said nervously, speaking his thoughts aloud, "that this was a good idea. We are engaged, now, you know, and…"

She looked at him with a strange expression. He couldn't fathom what she was thinking. "And?" she muttered.

Erik felt embarrassed. "Before…before, when we…you know, before all this…you were simply a guest. A guest, nothing more, even though you were a lovely one. Now, however…now…" He couldn't get the words out. They burned in his throat. What would she think of him?

Tora's face was calm, but a little color had risen to her cheeks. "Don't bother. I know. I'm a stupid fool, for doing things like this."

Erik snorted. "No, not a fool. An innocent, perhaps."

Tora raised an eyebrow. "Innocent? How innocent do you think I am, _mon cher?_"

Erik looked at her sharply. She giggled in embarrassment. "No, no, silly, I didn't mean _that_. As far as _that's_ concerned, I'm as pure as the day I was born. All I meant was…well…chorus girls, you know…and the dancers…they talk. About…things."

He felt an odd little tilt in his stomach, and looked away. "You, here in my house…about to become my wife…it gives Erik impulses, Tora. Impulses of a most ungentlemanly sort. If you have heard as much as you say, I'm sure you know of what I speak."

She choked a little on the cordial she was sipping. "Didn't you ever…have them before?" she asked. "Impulses?"

Erik felt as though he was on trial. "What business is that of yours?" he asked abruptly.

She put her glass down. "I'm simply trying to fathom the difference between now and then," she said calmly. "What about us being engaged has made such a vast—"

"You want to know? I'll tell you," he snapped. "Proximity. Expectation. _Anticipation._ It's enough to drive me utterly mad. Every time you brush your fingers against your throat to sweep back your hair…every parting of your lips…every time you lean back on that divan and stretch out like a cat…"

She regarded him with wide, intent eyes. There was a slightly frightened look in them, but she seemed vaguely unsurprised. "Is it because…before, there was no real promise of anything…but now that we are about to be married…" she asked slowly, trailing off.

"Something like that," he growled before she could finish, getting to his feet and pacing to the fireplace. He leaned his head against the warmed stone, curled his fingers around the solid outcropping. It loomed above the roaring flames, secure and deep in their hollow alcove. He watched them dance for a little while, calming his nerves.

"You know…I don't really _expect_ you to carry out anything you might find unpleasant," he muttered. "It would be monstrously unfair of me, after all, considering …you've never spoken of it in any great detail, and I have no clear knowledge of whether you intend to marry me in name only, or in b…body as well."

There. It was out.

"If you have…objections," he pressed forward, words tumbling end over end before he could stop them. He was jabbering like a monkey. "You ought to voice them now. I still would wish to be married—it would be enough, it really would, simply to have you as my lifelong companion, but you needn't worry about me being some slavering beast hounding you to carry out your 'wifely duties'—I'll even sleep in a separate room, if you want…" Had he really said that?

"Erik," said Tora quietly.

He looked over his shoulder at her, dreading what she might say. God knew he was willing to do (or not do) anything she desired, but he feared that now, having heard it made certain that he would not press her for marital intimacy, she might actually _agree_ to such terms. He would be doomed.

"Well, what?" he demanded. "You're looking at me oddly—I wish you wouldn't do that. I can't ever tell what you're thinking when you look like that. It's dreadfully infuriating…"

"Let me put it this way," she said, and color crept up her cheeks, even though her face was almost expressionless. "_You_ needn't worry about being…denied. It's ridiculous to me that you ever thought me capable of such frivolous cruelty in the first place, anyway."

Erik regarded her for a moment. "Make yourself plain," he said with a little difficulty. "Do you mean that you merely wish to give yourself up to an unpleasant task to make Erik happy, or do you actually…"

"I'm no shivering, shrinking little virgin sacrifice," snapped Tora, and then she blushed more deeply. "Well…virgin, yes. But _really_, Erik. You're treating me as though I were Christine. Saying such things to _her_ would have been entirely justified, perhaps. Have I ever given you reason to believe that I had no intentions of consummating our marriage?"

"I was merely making certain," Erik muttered. "Merely because you kiss me does not necessarily mean…"

"In point of fact, it does, at least in my case," Tora retorted, propping her elbow up on the arm of the divan and leaning her head into her hand. Her hair spilled down over the side, a rich chestnut cascade. "My pending 'unpleasant task', as you call it, is actually—if you won't think me terribly improper for saying so—something I look forward to. A great deal, in fact. More than you could possibly realize."

Erik blinked. That weirdly tilting feeling in his stomach was back. The inexplicable fact that she seemed to enjoy kissing him had not escaped him, but he hadn't really dared to hope that she felt the same about the prospect of complete surrender. He hadn't really been expecting her to refuse him, for he knew all too well her generous and—though she wouldn't have liked to admit it—tender-hearted nature, but he hadn't let himself be too optimistic, for fear of being crushed. He had more or less been preparing himself for resigned tolerance or bland acceptance at the very most, but _this…_this was something he was rather unprepared for. It was a pleasant revelation, to be sure—a glorious revelation, really, if he let himself be entirely honest—but a slightly unnerving one. It seemed far too good to be true. "Are you being serious, or just toying with me?" he asked.

Tora rolled her eyes. "Is it _really_ so difficult to imagine that I think the sight of your long skinny legs is ridiculously appealing, or that I enjoy taking your arm because I like the feel of it under my hands? Or that I could lose myself entirely in the way your voice sounds when you say certain things, the way it wraps around words and phrases? Not to be improper again, but all that only scratches the surface of the whole thing, mind you."

Erik felt a bit dizzy, and unbearably warm. "The daroga may have been right," he muttered.

Tora raised an eyebrow. "About what?"

He glanced at her. "The state of your senses," he said dryly.

Tora laughed a little. "Stop feeling sorry for yourself," she said. "Simply because a man is not what one would call 'handsome'—"

"Now you're under-exaggerating," he said coolly. "Most people see things like me in their nightmares."

She rolled her eyes again. "At any rate…there are other things that can render someone desirable. Other things that are far more interesting than youth or physical beauty."

"I'd very much like to hear this one, dear," he replied, a little twist to his mouth, but secretly he felt a bit delighted.

"I just _told_ you," she sighed, with the attitude of a long-suffering teacher speaking to an incorrigible schoolboy. Her color was still high, and her cheeks were temptingly flushed. "Your silky-satin voice, like…like dark, sliding honey. The way the muscles in your arm feel…soft and taut all at once, lean and ropy. The way your eyes fix on me sometimes, like a bird watching its prey…it's a bit frightening, but there's something oddly exciting about it." She paused. "Other things, too, but I'm already making a perfect idiot out of myself."

Erik unconsciously picked at a small crumbling spot in the stone, staring at her. There was a little tingling sensation all over his body, as though he were being pricked with pins.

"Don't _look _at me like that," she demanded, covering her face. "I'm already humiliated enough without you looking at me like I'm some sort of freak."

Erik flinched. "_You_, a freak? Never," he said softly. "You're far too beautiful to ever be called by that name."

"Oh, hush up," she said behind her hands. "You're only making it worse."

"It's only that it's very strange," said Erik nervously.

"What?" she asked, peeking out from behind one hand.

He shifted a little. "You, _chérie_. This whole…new experience. Being…being wanted."

"If by 'wanted' you mean what I think you mean, then I'm really going to die of embarrassment," Tora mumbled.

Erik forced a small laugh, but his grip on the stone tightened just a little. "I meant as a whole, mainly from the day you first put your lips to mine," he muttered. "Not merely the product of this most recent discussion."

Tora finally took her hands down. She seemed to be contemplating something very complex.

"What are you thinking about?" he asked softly.

She fidgeted. "I don't know," she muttered. "No, nothing. Never mind."

"Darling, I _do_ wish you would tell me," he asked, feeling a bit irritated. "I…"

"It's nothing," she insisted. "Besides, wasn't there something you were going to show me, whatever it was you were working on that kept you from me for four days?"

"Oh," Erik said, and suddenly felt oddly self-conscious. "That. I really ought to wait until it's finished. I should…"

Tora pursed her lips impatiently, and he was seized with a sudden ache. She was so young, so lovely and fresh. How could she bear to be engaged to him?

"God help me, Tora," he said hoarsely. "You shouldn't be with—you should be with anyone else but me—" He broke off, clamping his mouth shut.

She raised one eyebrow, and smiled lazily. He loved her with his whole soul, but kept himself still. "Perhaps," she said, with a little yawn. "But I like being with you. And that's really all that matters."


	44. Promised Bliss

**A/N: I must apologize profusely for the long hiatus. One, I've had trouble getting regular access to the internet. Two, I've rewritten this chapter about three times to get it right. The third time I had to scrap it entirely and start from scratch—something I don't often feel compelled to do. I'm relatively proud of how it turned out in spite of itself, so I hope you find the wait worth it. (When I said "rewritten this chapter," I actually was including Chapter 45, as well. This chapter, #44, **_**was**_** going to be extra-long, but it turned out to be over 11,000 words, which broke through even my recently long standards, so I picked a good split point and cut it in half (sort of). You get two chapters in one update, something I haven't done in a while. Hopefully the meaty read makes the wait at least slightly worth it, and splitting it into two probably makes it easier to read anyway.)**

**Amazing, isn't it, that **_**TOW's**_** fourth birthday has come and gone? I can tell you with a genuine certainty now (in fact, I can **_**promise**_**) that it is, indeed, nearing its conclusion, despite my unsurety in months past. I must confess that I'm really rather anxious to get it done with so that I can properly move on to other projects, but I'm determined not to do a sloppy job—I love this story, after all, and rushing the ending **_**too**_** much would just be dreadful for you and for me. At any rate, it feels right to end it fairly soon, particularly after the events of the next couple chapters (ahem). I never have planned for it to end up being any longer than fifty chapters, so expect the fiftieth to be the last.**

**I do feel the need to point out (perhaps rather superfluously) that the Paris in this story, along with many parts of the Garnier, are largely products of my imagination. Aside from avidly perusing Leroux's novel to glean whatever details I can, over the years I've done a fair amount of external online research on other details like period fashions and certain customs, the Grand Escalier, the Bois de Boulogne, etc., but I've really just lacked the time and resources needed to portray a totally accurate Paris (I wish I had a whole library of books on Paris in the late 1800s at my disposal, but I don't—for that matter, I wish I could at least visit modern Paris and the Garnier myself, but like most working-class Americans suffering from this hellish economy, I lack the funds to do so at the moment). Street names and extraneous buildings**** are made up, for the most part (as I've mentioned before), certain corridors and passageways in the Opera are mostly imagined (and especially the dormitories). I think I've done an okay job of getting the **_**feel**_** of it right (at least, I hope I have) but I wanted to make all that perfectly clear. **

* * *

They sat in front of the fire. He felt warm to her, as he had for some time, his limbs relaxed and almost soft, not hard and cold at all. She liked the feeling.

A long, not entirely comfortable silence had reigned for a little while, and she wondered, as her eyes drooped, if he had been thinking the same sorts of thoughts which had given rise in her own mind not long past. Her fingers slid along the back of his long, pale hand, and he shivered.

"Your creation," she said, electing to try to drive her own thoughts, as well as his, in a different direction. "You said it wasn't quite finished yet."

"I shan't show it to you," he said. "Not until it's completed."

"Would you mind telling me, at least, what it is you are trying to complete?" Tora queried.

"No," he said silkily, and it was her turn to shiver. "I want to see the look on your face when it's done. It shan't be a surprise if I tell you all about it now."

"Erik, you are going to drive me _mad,_" she burst out, sitting up straight and putting her hands on his cheeks. "Why won't you tell me what it is? Mightn't you at least give me some sort of clue?"

His hands came up to meet hers, the touch of his fingers light and soft against hers. They remained in this manner for several moments, and he closed his eyes.

She placed a kiss on his dry, thin lips. "Now will you tell me?"

He shook his head slightly.

The kiss was a little deeper this time. "Now?"

He said nothing. He didn't even move, although his eyelids and fingers quivered a little, as if they were leaves in a spring breeze.

Tora slid her hands from his face, pursing her lips. "Fine. Shall we talk of other matters, then?"

His lids cracked open slowly.

"My dress, for instance," she said. "As I mentioned, you promised to buy me a grand one, but you must admit that there isn't much time in which to procure it."

"Do you suggest we go this very day?" he asked smoothly. "I am enjoying the fire."

Tora licked her lips, which felt very dry. His tone suggested it was not only the fire which he was enjoying.

After a long moment, she cleared her throat. "I was happy with the idea of wearing my own, ordinary clothes to the wedding, you know—plenty of women do," she said. "But you insisted that you would buy me some spectacular gown, and I must confess, the idea completely eclipsed my practicality. Now you won't even speak about it."

"Perhaps practicality would be in order," he said. "Perhaps promises ought to be put aside. After all, what need is there for such formality? You and I could go this very moment to a priest and he would marry us without delay. No frills, or frippery."

The familiar little icy panic squirmed in Tora's chest, although it was far quieter than it had been in days and weeks past. "Perhaps," she said blandly. "But—"

The words hitched in her throat when she saw that discomfitingly hawklike eagerness come into his eyes, like a bird-of-prey about to descend upon the object of its hunting. It flared like sparks, that look, and it almost consumed her for a moment. She gulped.

"Are you not content to wait another week-and-a-half?" she queried, immediately regretting the question. It made her sound as though she herself was contemplating a much less distant union. Sure enough, the predatory eagerness this time seemed to infuse his whole face. There was a strange flush in his cheeks, contrasting sharply with the pastiness of his skin.

"We could—" he began. Tora put her hand over his mouth. He tossed it away irritably. "I am not the sort of man to tease," he said stormily.

"I don't mean to," she said quickly. "But I—" She could not tell him further of her doubts. She had wounded him enough already with them. Even so, they could not be ignored for long. They were waiting to spring out of her, like a great cat.

"There are…things we need to discuss," she said with difficulty.

"Things? What things?" he snapped.

The words stuck in her throat. She almost didn't say them. "We—we haven't—talked of—ch…children," she managed. This looming chasm she had tried to ignore for some time, and now it seemed as though it would swallow her completely.

He seemed to shrink into himself. "Children?" His voice was quiet, strangely subdued.

"Erik…"

He turned his head away. "Why on earth should you want to discuss such a thing now?" The words were biting, but lacked energy.

"Because," she said. "Because…"

"I am not well-versed in how to prevent conception," he said flatly. "Unless, of course, you intend for our marriage to be celibate."

Her cheeks were hot. "I told you, already…" She couldn't bring herself to continue. It was too intimate, too confused.

"I had not thought of it," he said, his head still turned from her. "The idea of…children. It seems a stupid thing, now, not to have thought of. Your husband-to-be is getting on in years, to be sure, but that does not matter, for you, of course, are quite young, and more than capable, I assume, of conceiving offspring."

The cold objectivity with which he said this bothered her more than a little. "I wouldn't care, you know," she said, "if they were…" This seemed far too abrupt, and she covered her mouth.

He turned his head a little, and his eyes slid almost venomously to meet hers. "Yes?" He reminded her of a snake now, rather than a bird-of-prey, especially with the way the breath hissed through that dreadful hole of a nose. She quivered a little, and tried not to grimace.

"If they…if they…" She could not say it.

"Favored their father?" he queried malevolently. "In their appearance?"

"Y..yes."

"You could put such a child to your breast?" he asked. "Suckle it, cradle it, even as its breath blew in and out with dreadful panting noises through its chasmic nasal orifice?"

"I don't care about that with you, do I?" she asked a little hotly. She was beginning to feel a little righteously indignant. "When you kiss me—"

"At times Erik is inclined to wonder," he countered blackly.

Tora could feel herself blush, but tried her level best to ignore it. "As far as—conception, or its prevention—you told me you traveled extensively," she said. "Even lacking…lacking experience, you must have heard talk. Even the girls here have spoken of—" She broke off.

"By all means, continue," he said smoothly, blandly. He seemed to enjoy her discomfort—perhaps, she thought, it served to ease his own.

"There are—things—men can get in barber-shops and the like," she said. "Although they sound terribly uncomfortable."

"What things?"

She fidgeted. "I've heard them called differently—sheathes, French letters—"

"Ah." Erik's mouth twitched before he spoke.

"You do know of this, then?" she asked.

"One does not, indeed, live so many years as I have without hearing _something _of such things," he replied a little dryly. "As you said—though not in those same words."

"You're not keen on the idea," she said.

"Not at all," he said stiffly, his fingers drumming on his knee. He was beginning to get that twitchy look about him, as though he would rather talk about anything but this. "But if you wish it—"

"I don't know of any other way," she said nervously. "And you might as well know now, I—I would never go to an angel-maker. Never."

"Why not?" he asked, his fingers halting their drumming. She felt a little shocked at his cavalier reply, but supposed she oughtn't be entirely surprised. After all, he had killed men with impunity—and she had a feeling he didn't think much more of unborn infants than he did some men. She knew full well that a good many of the populace, many of whom were perfectly decent in every other way, did not consider an infant to be of any real consequence until it was born. "Because," she said sullenly, "It seems so dreadful, killing a baby before it's even born. What did the baby ever do, but form inside its mother's womb? It isn't as though—"

"If it is expelled early enough," Erik said blandly, "I see nothing dreadful about it."

Tora gave up, deciding to try a different tack. "At any rate—the procedure sounds dreadfully unsafe. I've heard of girls dying from it, or being permanently injured for the rest of their lives. And besides, even if it was safe, who knows how many times I might have to go? I couldn't bear it. All those poor unborn children—"

"What, then," he queried coolly, "do you propose?"

She sank back a little. "I don't know," she whispered. "I don't—"

"You don't want children?"

"I do want children," she said. "I always have. But…"

"I suppose it doesn't matter," he said. "If they do happen to inherit my unfortunate curse, I could always make for them what I am making for myself."

"What's that?" she asked.

"The surprise," he replied.

"Ah," she said sardonically, suddenly having an inkling of what it might be, but still unsure. "You know…they might _not_ look like you."

"Erik would, indeed, much prefer they look like you," he said. His voice was calm, but she had a feeling he was nonetheless becoming increasingly agitated.

"It may not even be her…hered…"

"Hereditary," he supplied dryly.

"Hereditary. The reason you look the way you do."

He was silent for a moment. "At times I suspected it might be the pox," he said at last, "for children who get such a curse from their mother or father sometimes have a sunken sort of nose and wide, hollow eyes. But both my mother and my father were in exceptionally good health and never exhibited any signs of spots or sickliness of any kind, as far as I can remember—and I have a very good memory—and I myself have none of the other symptoms. On the contrary, I have always possessed a rather unusually hardy constitution."

Tora's heart had seized a little when he mentioned the pox. "Thank heavens for that, at least," she said.

There was another uncomfortable silence.

"Perhaps we simply ought to let nature take its course, since we cannot agree," she said, her voice sardonic, but her cheeks warm.

Erik said nothing for a moment. "Whatever you wish," he said expressionlessly. He was hiding behind a façade, of that she was quite sure. "It should be noted, however, that children would be a certain kind of nuisance."

"They most certainly would not," she snapped.

"So you think," he said sullenly. "They can be beastly little things. I don't know that I want a lot of them running about my house, disturbing my peace."

"I'm dreadfully sorry now I brought it up," she said sullenly. "Now you and I shall be able to think of nothing else, and it will spoil everything."

"Were there any other concerns you wished to address?" he asked dryly, drawing his legs up and draping his arms over his knees so that they drooped, arms limp all the way down to his fingers. He looked more than ever like a vulture in this attitude.

"Yes," she said, although she had no wish now to bring more concerns to light.

He sat in that hunched, brooding manner for a moment before speaking. "Tell Erik about them," he said, "Please tell him," and there was a strange gentleness to his voice, something she hadn't expected. It caught her slightly off guard.

"I don't know—I can't think," she said, and her body shook. He let his legs drop from the divan, so that his feet rested on the floor. "Frightened," he said. "I prefer you to be without fear. To see you act frightened and confused causes Erik to be painfully aware of his own disgusting traits."

"Please," she said. "Not now. Don't begin that dreadful harping on yourself now. That's the last thing I wish to hear."

There was silence for a moment or two. "Let's forget it, then. You said you wanted to buy your dress," he said, making one of those unnerving leaps of emotion, as though nothing had ever happened. She suspected he was simply trying to forget it. "We'll go to _L'Elegante._"

"The only reason you're rich, and can _afford_ something from _L'Elegante_," she replied, "is because you have gotten ill-gains by extortion."

"A fact which I'm very proud of," he said sardonically. "Come." He rose lightly to his feet and stretched out his hand for her.

She took it a little grudgingly, still feeling as though the conversation really ought to be finished. He didn't appear to notice—or if he did, he chose to ignore it.

"On second thought," she said. "I'd rather we simply take a walk, if it's all the same to you—outside, of course."

"If you don't mind all the strange looks you're likely to garner," he said. "It's still light outside, I should imagine."

"Aren't you forgetting your—" Tora gestured gingerly. Perhaps she was overreacting—perhaps they ought to be past such things by now—but for her to actually say the word "nose" when referring to his lack of one seemed vaguely insensitive. Besides, he was unpredictable. She had no wish to bruise his ego still further, not now when they both were just beginning to recover from that disastrous discussion about children.

His brow seemed to darken. "By God," he said, "I'll be grateful when—" He didn't continue, and retreated into his bedroom, presumably to adhere the false nose to his physiognomy.

* * *

"So," said Suzette a little sardonically, "how fares the future bride?"

"Erik bought me my dress today," Tora said faintly, looking up at the dormitory ceiling where the wooden struts crisscrossed and arched. "Convinced me to go to a shop, and there it was—soft perfection. I could hardly refuse."

"Oh," Suzette said, and her nose wrinkled. "So you still plan to marry him, then."

"I can't possibly say no now."

"Of course you can," Suzette scoffed. "Dresses can be taken back."

Tora rolled over. "But there's less than a fortnight until the wedding!" she said. "And it isn't simply the dress. I want to marry him. I do—it's only that part of me dreads it. There are things I look forward to—and things I don't like to think about."

"Such as?"

"Nothing," mumbled Tora.

"Why won't you speak to me?" Suzette demanded. "We used to talk about things, if you remember."

"And we've talked of how it's different now. Remember?"

"Hoity-toity soon-to-be-married woman," Suzette snapped. "What _has_ possessed you?"

"Erik has," Tora groaned, and put the pillow over her head.

Suzette was silent for a moment. "Can I see it?"

"See what?"

"Your dress."

Tora sat up slightly, tapped her fingers on the edge of the bed. "It's not here," she said. "It's down there. In his house."

"Down _there?_" Suzette asked incredulously. "Why ever would—"

"To keep it safe," she said. "It's not as though I have my own room up here. Anyone could pinch it from the dormitories when I was away at rehearsal."

"You won't be at rehearsal for a while, anyway—not if Mme. Gervais keeps her word. Was it expensive?"

Tora fidgeted a little. "To say the least."

"Very?"

She shrugged. "Moderately. Far beyond my own means, at any rate. And he hasn't even seen it yet. I made him promise not to look. He waited outside the shop until I had chosen it, and by then, when it came time for him to buy it, it had already been wrapped in its box."

"Does it fit you well?"

"Like a glove," Tora said, and her face glowed a little. "It was astonishing, really. It fit me exactly, as though it were meant to be mine."

Suzette chuckled a little. "_Mon Dieu,_ Tora," she said. "You do love him."

Tora's cheeks colored. "Of course I do—in spite of everything that causes me doubt. Oh, I cannot help it," she muttered. "You and I have talked of this before."

"I know," said Suzette, "but I've been so worried for you. You've seemed so unsure, so desperately unknowing."

"I am a little frightened," Tora said, her voice low. "And dreadfully unsure of myself—unsure of all the changes which will take place, most of all. Being a married woman is going to be far different than being a girl in the dormitories. I shall go from living with dozens of chattering girls to living with one terse and unpredictable man."

"Are you sure you want to do it?" Suzette asked. "Don't you think you ought rather to wait for some charming young man, one who makes a comfortable, _honest_ living and has no dark, dreary past to drag behind him like a shroud?"

These words fell over Tora all at once and enveloped her. She felt a strange, terrible chill, and a horrid part of her knew that what Suzette was saying made perfect sense. She closed her eyes again and tried not to think of that other, far more rosy picture Suzette had painted, which seemed, for a moment, to be infinitely better than the one she was practically forcing upon herself.

"But I love him," she said. "_I love him._"

"Maybe so," said Suzette. "But…oh, _chérie_, I hate to speak of this, but what of years from now? You'll be a middle-aged woman, still strong and hale, no doubt, and he will be a stooped old man, probably near death, if he isn't dead already by then. What will you do then? You shan't have nearly as many prospects, and you'll be left with a broken heart and years and years ahead of you without him. Is it really so entirely wise to jump into this so quickly? Think not just of him, but of yourself! This is precisely why it's not good for a young girl to marry a much older man! It simply doesn't do! It happened to my cousin, and—"

"Stop it," Tora whispered. "Stop it, Suzette, _stop it!_"

Suzette clamped her mouth shut. "Oh, Tora_,_" she said. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to go on so. I was so carried away—"

Tora said nothing. Her face was buried in her pillow, and she was trying with all the might she possessed to erase the images in her mind of Erik as an old man, a very old man, and she a widow at forty.

_Dear God,_ she thought. _And he might not even live that long—it's probable, in fact, not merely possible. I could be a widow at thirty, or younger._

It was unbearable to think of. And yet she knew, with a sort of desperate feeling which was deep and rooted, that she could not alter her course.

Even so…was she doomed to condemn herself to a martyr's fate, love him though she might? Could she not _try_ for something a little better, a little less daunting?

_If it is not my fate to marry Erik,_ she thought, _if my life would be far more fulfilling with another, give me a sign._ She did not know precisely to Whom (or to What) she directed her thoughts. Apart from a few muttered oaths and exclamations, she had never quite put a large stock in God—at least, not as He existed in the minds of her fellows. She had not been exposed to a wide variety of theology. She knew a limited amount about what the nature of God was considered to be, what kind of Person He was (or was, at any rate, supposed to be).

She felt Suzette's hand on her shoulder. "I'm sorry," she said again. "I didn't mean…"

"I know you meant well," Tora said with an effort. "It's all right, dear."

* * *

The next afternoon, she amused herself by watching rehearsals from behind a curtain. When she was pulled behind a set piece by a long white hand and spiraled into his welcoming arms, she thought perhaps that the Sign might have been given in reverse, that this giddy, heady warmth was in truth the great meaning, that she ought to proceed precisely as she had planned.

She pulled her mouth from his abruptly, needing to speak it, to say it aloud. It had been weighing on her like a crushing beast all night and for a good part of the morning.

"Erik," she whispered, "what if you die?"

It was as though a thunderbolt had struck. Silence fell deafeningly upon them; his hands tightened on her arms.

"That's no kind of talk for a bride-to-be," he said. "Why, sweeting, why such pressing horrors when far less than a fortnight remains?"

"Precisely because of it," she said, trying to keep her voice low. "We're about to be married, but do either you or I know what we are involving ourselves in? You told me yourself you're in the vicinity of fifty. How much longer do you expect to live?"

"No man knows the hour of his death," he said dryly, kissing her knuckles tenderly. "I have, it is true, prepared myself for it for some time, but merely out of a macabre fascination and a morbid depression. You have lifted me from this, darling, made me wish to live again. I shall easily live to a hundred with you by my side."

"A hundred!" she scoffed, but this oddly uncharacteristic optimism—whether seriously meant or no—gave her a strange, fleeting hope.

"Why are you here, at any rate, _petite_?" he asked. "Gervais barred you from the production for being a vapid little goose, if I remember correctly."

"I like to watch," she said, ignoring the thinly veiled sting of his words. "There isn't anything else to do."

"I'd ask you to stay with me," he said, "but it wouldn't be proper, of course, unless..."

She eyed him for a moment, and then looked away.

"What are you thinking of?" he asked.

"Nothing," she said. "I'll tell you after we've been married."

"Perhaps," he said, "since you are wont for things to do, we could use this time to…" He broke off yet again.

"What?"

He seemed embarrassed. "Erik is tired of waiting," he said. "I want to be married now."

"You sound like a child who wants a toy," Tora snapped. "Besides, you haven't moved anything into the aboveground apartment. Have you?"

"No," he said sullenly. "But we could move it all afterwards. I could get the daroga to help, perhaps."

"Could you not do it now, so that in nine days we are ready to move in?"

His fingers tightened on her face. "Could you not agree to slip away with _me_ now, and pay a visit to the little church on the Rue St.-Joseph?"

She shivered. It seemed a delicious, impulsive idea. And after all, a matter of nine days was not so great. Still, she paused.

"Come with me now," he murmured, his breath on her ear, his mouth brushing her throat. She grasped his jacket, pressing herself closer to him. Against her thigh she felt _It_ again. She had a wicked impulse to touch it, to brush her fingers along the bulge in his trousers, but she didn't dare.

Nine days was at once not at all long, but in some ways it _was_ a long time. She might decide a good deal in nine days. She might come to a different conclusion. She might meet someone.

That thought seemed a little too wicked, and she put it from her mind. Erik was warm and near, and she wanted him. She could, she supposed, go to his bed before being properly married, but the idea did not strike her with as much sense as it had yesterday. It seemed like brown, soft spots on an otherwise perfectly good apple.

"Give me one more day," she whispered, her lips sliding over his, and she felt him quiver. "Tomorrow. You can take me down to your house in the afternoon—shall we say two-thirty?—and I can get ready there. Then we'll go to the church together."

"Truly?" he asked, his breath coming a little more quickly. "I thought you were keen on having our apartment furnished."

"It doesn't matter," she said. Quite honestly, she had suddenly realized just how familiar—and private—the underground house was, in contrast to a strange apartment, where who knew how many people living next-door might hear—

Color rose into her cheeks, and she suddenly felt quite dizzy with elation. Doubt, for the moment, had vanished. "Tomorrow," she whispered. "Tomorrow. Take me to lunch today, Erik, to celebrate. If anyone stares at you, I'll stick out my tongue at them."

"Take you to lunch now?" he asked.

"Yes, now!" she whispered giddily, and grabbed his hand.

"Erik did not see fit to bring his nose," he said uncertainly.

"Your mask will do fine," she said. "It makes you look dashing and mysterious."

"What on earth has come over you?" he asked curiously. "You're acting like a giddy little robin."

"Come on," she said, giggling. "Let's go."

* * *

"You must admit," Tora said, on the way back from the little café, "that it was interesting. Quite a surprisingly normal activity, for the likes of you and me."

"I can tell my own lies," said Erik sullenly. "You needn't have told the waiter that I was injured by shrapnel in the Prussian war."

"But the look on his face was so funny! They were all staring at your mask before that, all the people in the café, but afterwards they tried not to look at you, did you see?"

"I paid little attention," he said.

"Oh, Erik, don't be so glum," she said, nudging him with her shoulder. "No wonder people think you're a ghoul."

"You needn't remind Erik of his shortcomings," he said tersely.

"What is the matter with you?" she asked. "Was it really the café that had you so upset?"

"I need to finish my creation," he said. "I suspect I'll be up all night working on it. I hope you'll be pleased with the result."

"_You_ seem pleased with the prospect of it," Tora remarked.

"I am," he said. "Quite pleased. I shall no longer have to endure the sort of looks I endured today, so long as I take care to wear my creation out in public."

"It's a sort of mask, I take it," she said, and he gave a little start.

"To term it 'mask' would be giving it a crude epithet," he retorted. "I'm not going to tell you any more, even if you guess. You'll be surprised! You'll be so surprised!"

Tora was beginning to feel a little discomfited. "I like you the way you are, you know," she said. "I should hope you believe that."

A little smile ghosted upon his lips, but he seemed to be very far away.

* * *

Tora was waiting impatiently for Suzette once rehearsal was finished. "Suzette, you'll never guess," she said breathlessly.

"What? You're eloping with a nobleman?"

Tora giggled aloud. "No, silly. I'm marrying Erik tomorrow."

Suzette blinked. "Tomorrow? I thought—"

"I can't explain it to you. I can't even explain it to myself. But I'm marrying him tomorrow, and that's that."

"_Mon Dieu, chérie!_" Suzette exclaimed. "You look so giddy! I can't help being happy for you, but are you sure, dear? Are you quite sure?"

"I don't know—and I don't know whether to laugh or cry! It's all happening so fast!"

"Oh, gracious," said Suzette. "You can't leave me yet! I was almost getting used to it being a little over a week off, but—"

"I'll still be here, silly, to work on the new production. There might be a few weeks in-between, but that will be perfect. Mme. Gervais unwittingly gave us a perfect wedding-present when she barred me from working on this production. I only hope I'm not too much of a flibbertigibbet to work on the one after."

"Or in a delicate condition," Suzette remarked darkly. Tora's face went a little white. "I don't want to talk about that," she said. "Let's talk of other things. This is our last night in the dormitories where we can prattle like girls."

* * *

Despite efforts to keep their voices low in the dormitories, they were quickly overheard discussing Tora's soon-to-be wedding. The girls descended on Tora like bats in a belfry, clamoring for details.

"You never told _us _you were getting married, Margot," said Lise, shooting a glance at her while brushing Cosette's hair.

"You never asked," retorted Tora. "And besides…it's Tora. Not Margot. I only went by Margot because it's French."

"La-dee-da," replied Lise, and the other girls tittered.

"Is he handsome, Marg…Tora?" asked Sophie.

"Well, I…no," said Tora.

"Then why on earth are you marrying him? Is he rich?"

"I suppose he is," she said uncomfortably, "but that's not why I'm marrying him."

"Is he a young man or an old man?" asked Lise, holding a ribbon between her teeth as she struggled to hold Cosette's hair in place.

"Older," said Tora, "more than twice my age, but I don't care."

"Ugh!" said Cosette. "How do you know he can even keep it up?"

"Keep what up?" asked Tora, and then abruptly flushed scarlet. Several girls giggled. The younger ones looked confused.

"Ah, our Margot's a virgin," said Lise, and then shot a glance at her. "Tora, I mean. At any rate…"

"Want some advice?" asked Cosette. "Make sure you're well-greased. Spittle will work, if you can't work up the wetness yourself, or don't have time to."

Tora had no idea what to say to this.

"Cosette's right," said Lise calmly. "I wish someone had told _me_ that my first time. A few men are good at working you up into a fine lather before they put their sword in your sheathe, but most just plunge right in without a thought for your comfort."

Tora thought she would die from embarrassment.

Suzette was laughing so hard she nearly fell off her bed.

"_You_ wouldn't know," said Lise with a grin, looking over in her direction.

"Why?" asked Cosette. "Didn't she bed Fonta?"

"No," said Suzette hotly, "I didn't. But I can still laugh, can't I? Poor Tora! You ought to see your face!"

"So he's old and ugly?" asked Sophie, apparently oblivious to the rest of the conversation.

Everyone laughed out loud. Tora was beginning to feel a little stifled.

"He has," she said a little imperiously, "the strength and quite often the energy of a man twenty years younger." She was not quite sure if this was strictly true, but she felt the need to redeem herself somehow. "And he loves me. And I love him." This was said rather defensively.

"How ever did you meet him?" asked Sophie. "Why haven't we ever seen him?"

"I thought she was with the Irish," said Madeleine, a girl who was a little older than Tora. Tora shot her a venomous look. "Patrick," she said. "And he was _not_ my beau. I thought I made that clear weeks ago."

Madeleine shrugged.

"I thought Suzette liked the Irish—Patrick," Cosette said quickly.

"Oh, _would _you all give me some room for a moment or two?" Tora snapped. "I don't mean to be rude, but I feel as though I'm going to faint."

* * *

The night was spent rather sleeplessly. Not only did Tora have to contend with a lot of the girls returning and asking if they could come to the wedding (the answer was of course an emphatic _no,_ on the basis that her betrothed was "a very private person"), but she was inundated with, as the older girls put it, "wedding-night advice." She felt rather overwhelmed by the time the girls had all gone to sleep.

"Suzette," she whispered.

"_Oui?_" came the sleepy voice.

"I can't sleep."

"Neither can I. But I'm trying to."

"I'm a little frightened."

"You ought to be."

"Not of him. Of his…you know." She didn't dare continue by saying _because I have some inkling of how large it is._ That would probably lead to awkward questions, with far more awkward answers.

"Why? Are you afraid it'll hurt?"

"I _told_ you," Cosette's voice said groggily, "as long as you relax, it won't hurt nearly as much as you think it will."

"Hush!" said one of the younger girl's voices. "Or I'll get Madame! We're trying to sleep!"

"Boil your head," said Suzette, and Tora giggled. "You stole that from me, _chérie,_" she whispered.

"Indubitably," Suzette whispered back, and finally Tora's eyes began to feel heavy. Sleep overcame her, and her dreams were blank and strange.

* * *

**A/N: This author's note mostly contains some historical information. You don't have to read it, but I think it would enrich your overall reading experience and understanding of certain parts of this chapter if you did. **

**On the usage of the word "pox": this could refer to a variety of illnesses, but usually referred to—and does, indeed, refer to in this chapter—syphilis, a particularly nasty sexually transmitted disease that you don't hear too much about today (although it usually gets a brief mention in the STD portion of high school health class). With the advent of penicillin, syphilis became much less of a threat (which is why you generally don't hear about it much anymore), but before then, people were terrified of it—especially women, for whom the effects were often much more serious than men. Prostitution, in those days, was the chief way that syphilis was spread around. (I.e., a man might sleep with an infected prostitute, then contract it himself and pass it on to his wife, who would likely pass it on to any unborn children or even become completely sterile (as in unable to have children, not super-clean) as a result. Likewise, a man infected with syphilis might sleep with a previously uninfected prostitute, who would then contract it and pass it on to yet another man, who would pass it on to **_**his **_**wife…etc.) Symptoms and lifelong effects varied. Because it could often be mistaken for other diseases (unless the symptoms were more obvious, which they not always were), it was known as "the great imitator." Treatment for it involved mercury, which of course we now know can have extremely harmful effects in large amounts (whether that involves a large dose or several smaller doses over a long period of time). Those who became aware that they had contracted "the pox" always tried to keep public knowledge of their affliction as silent as the grave, as social stigma would invariably follow whether the individual was actually at fault for the transmission or not. (And of course, an unmarried person who was publicly known to have syphilis would obviously have pretty much zero chance of marital prospects—which was why it was critical, though obviously completely selfish, for an unwed man, especially one of high social standing, to keep his syphilis under wraps, whether he had simply inherited it from a parent or had gained it by sowing his wild oats.) **

**In this particular case, however, Erik's character is being quite honest. (I didn't want you to read that sentence about unmarried men keeping their syphilis under wraps, and then immediately think I was trying to drop a hint about the fact that Erik denied having it—or think that since syphilis does not always manifest itself with overt outward symptoms, he was perhaps honestly mistaken about his parents. I can tell you that neither assumption is true—although in hindsight, it might have made a rather morbidly interesting plot point. Maybe a little TOO morbidly interesting.**

**As far as abortion goes, the stories Tora refers to hearing about are basically those of back-alley abortions, even though the term "angel-maker" typically referred in those days not to some quack looking for a quick way to make money, but to a doctor (or in some cases, a midwife) who would willingly (and, one would hope, skillfully) perform such a procedure. I'm mostly against abortion, myself (with a few notable exceptions, which I won't bother to go into now), and while it's a medical fact that even abortions performed nowadays by a skilled doctor always carry a **_**certain**_** kind of risk, just as any kind of surgery or invasive medical procedure would (though obviously with varying degrees), Tora's personal conclusion about abortion's safety in general at the time, while somewhat on the mark, is **_**slightly**_** flawed by her relative ignorance about it—she confuses the dreadful and unfortunate practice of back-alley abortions with those performed by a skilled "angel-maker." (Of course, it should **_**definitely**_** be noted that in those days, there were still plenty of licensed doctors who didn't ever bother to wash their hands, even after handling a corpse, which was why hospital-borne infections, especially puerperal fever—the most common cause of childbirth-related death—were so rampant up until the 1900s, when antiseptic practices finally became a widespread medical standard. Midwives, of course, were generally much more sensible as a rule about matters such as clean hands, long before it became widely accepted in the mainstream medical community that germs could be spread by skin-to-skin contact—a trend of sorts that has consistently continued to this day as far as the medical community suddenly saying "Aha! Look what we just discovered about how to be healthier! Look how brilliant we are!" and the natural health community saying, "Um, well, duh. We've known about this for years, and TRIED TO TELL YOU, but you never believed us. Brilliant, huh?") **


	45. Bound Together

Morning dawned. Tora opened her eyes and felt a fresh bout of panic.

"I'm being married today," she said aloud, and then felt so sick she almost had to use the bedside basin. She borrowed pomade and a comb, along with a mountain of pins, from Suzette's friend Anne. She went to work on her hair, with shaking fingers, while the girls were at rehearsal. She felt as nervous as a rabbit who knew it was bound for the stew-pot.

Twice the comb dropped from her fingers. Three times she had to take her hair out and start all over. She felt sweat forming on her forehead.

At last, when she had gained some measure of composure over herself, she finally managed to create a fairly elegant coiffure, aided by a few grainy photographs and stylish drawings from one of the magazines Anne apparently liked to buy when she could afford it. Tora wasn't sure what to do after that, apart from sitting there like a useless lump and drumming her fingers on the sides of her chair.

She watched rehearsals for a while, but didn't wish Mme. Gervais or the singers to ask questions about her hair, and stayed inconspicuously in the wings.

Time seemed to creep. She wondered, suddenly, where Christine was. It wasn't that she had any particular wish to speak to her—quite the opposite, in fact. As far as Tora was aware, Christine had been given a fairly large part in the production, and her absence simply seemed strange.

She heard the bonging of the clock, and realized that it was already two in the afternoon. Time had apparently not been creeping so slowly as she had thought. She had only half an hour before Erik would come for her. Her body felt seized as though by an iron band.

She realized they had not agreed on a place to meet where he could fetch her easily. She elected to wander the halls for several minutes, feeling aimless and lost, dizzy.

When she came around a corner, she suddenly bumped into Christine. She was too shocked for a moment to say anything, but the latter had plenty of her own to say.

"I just saw him," she said. "I saw Erik. I _know _it was him—he didn't speak to me, but I know. He was looking for you—he asked someone where you were. I recognized his voice, but—"

"What?" Tora asked, feeling a little alarmed. It was unlike Erik to ask her whereabouts—_incredibly _unlike. He never spoke to anybody unless he had to. And wouldn't he cause suspicion, walking about?

"He has a face!" Christine gasped. "A normal face! Tora, how ever did he manage it? I'm either mad, or blind, or he is more of a sorcerer than I thought!"

Tora felt the blood drain from her cheeks. "I had an inkling," she said. "That was his great project. He didn't tell me anything about it, but that it would make him appear…more…acceptable." This was said for lack of a better word, and very lamely.

"It looks far too real to be a mask," Christine said. "What ever did he do?"

"I don't know," Tora said. "Where is he? We're getting married this afternoon."

"Oh!" Christine's cheeks flushed a little. "I didn't know…I did, but I didn't think…"

"So soon?" Tora asked dryly, with a little more venom than she intended. Christine flinched.

"I have a secret," she said. "And I want you to be the only one in the world to know, besides Raoul and myself. You can tell Erik, if you want, but don't tell anyone else."

"What is it?" Tora asked coolly.

Christine flushed again. "Raoul and I are eloping," she said. "It's a little disgraceful, but it's the only thing we can do. His family hasn't been partial to the idea of our marriage, and it will likely cost Raoul his inheritance, but…"

Tora felt very silly for thinking ill of her, all of a sudden.

"Erik offered to have some papers drawn up, forged papers, to 'prove' I was of noble birth—that was what you caught us talking about, that day—but as much as it might have helped, I couldn't do it. I think he was a little angry at me at first—Erik, I mean—for refusing him, but I told him I simply couldn't live such a farce. It struck him hard, I think—it might have reminded him of when he had intentions toward me—and he was far more gracious after that than I expected him to be. I haven't spoken to him since then, but I do hope that you will be happy. Will you wish us happiness, too—Raoul and me?"

She grasped Tora's hands, and after a moment, Tora squeezed her hands gently. "Yes," she said. "I hope you will be happy. I wish you all happiness in the world."

"Thank you," Christine said sincerely, and kissed Tora on the cheek. "I know it has been strange. It's been odd for me, too—you can't imagine how!"

"Where did you see him?" Tora asked.

Christine pointed wordlessly. Tora returned Christine's cheek-kiss and thanked her, and then ran quickly in the direction she had pointed.

* * *

"I wish," Tora said, "that there was no need for this sort of thing. I wish that you could simply walk about in your mask, or with your face uncovered, and that people would simply be gracious enough not to judge or stare."

"You haven't told me yet how you like it," Erik said.

"It's very nice," she said blandly. _Shocking_ was more like it. In the first few moments after she had seen him, she had almost been inclined to agree with Christine—it seemed that Erik really _was_ a sorcerer. She had no idea how he had done it, or what materials he had used to manufacture his "creation," but Erik looked so entirely normal—not at all handsome, but, still, _ordinary,_ and certainly not nightmarish_—_that it was fairly jarring. It did not look at all as though he were wearing a mask. It looked like a second skin. It was, to be frank, uncanny. Tora found herself almost wishing he _did_ look the way the second skin made him look, and felt so low afterwards that she wanted to sink into the ground. She didn't trust herself to tell Erik what she really thought of it.

"It's mostly made of rubber—would you believe it?" Erik said. "The thinnest, most pliable rubber you can imagine, except for the nose, which has to be thicker and denser than the rest of it because it isn't covering anything but a hole. But it's durable, even the most delicate parts—it won't tear. And I spent so many hours, days and days, poring over the details, every little pigmentation of the skin, every line or crease. I knew you'd be surprised. You should have seen your face!"

Tora said nothing.

"Are you happy to be married soon, darling?" he asked her, and she nodded mutely.

"You don't look happy," he said. "You look miserable. You have that faraway look, as though you were wishing you were anywhere else but with your Erik. Has this so upset you?"

"I don't know," she burst out. "It's unnatural, Erik—it's strange! I don't know if I shall ever be able to get used to it. Please tell me you won't wear it when you're with me, when we're alone. Tell me you'll only use it to go out."

"If that is what my little bride wishes," he said. "But—"

"Promise," she said darkly.

"Very well," he said, a little coolly. "I promise."

"Thank you," she said. "How much farther to your house? This is taking a god-awful long time, and my hair is going to get mussed."

"Not much farther," he said. "You found your way to the lakeside once, by yourself. Are you telling me you don't know now where we are?"

"I don't know what witchery led me to the lakeside that day without you for my guide," she said. "Strange forces have ever been at work where you and I are concerned." She did not mention the dreams, from when she had been in America.

"That they have been," he said. "Look—there! You see the lake, now." The eerie blue glimmer was indeed visible. Tora shivered with long-forgotten memories.

He helped her into the boat, and she quivered in the cold, damp underground air. Odd echoes seemed to be coming softly from all around them, and she felt faint.

"Can you believe that we are going to be married?" she asked a little dizzily. "It seems an eternity since our first meeting. I was so young. So impressionable. I could never stop thinking about you when I went to America. You were always on my mind."

Erik said nothing. Tora suddenly remembered how _he_ had occupied himself during her absence, and felt uncomfortable, even a little miffed.

"You were ever on mine," he finally said softly. "Even when I tried to forget you—your face would come floating into my head, the image of your soft, dark hair wafting against your pale throat." He seemed embarrassed, suddenly, and said nothing more.

Tora wisely chose not to bring up another pale throat, against which golden hair, not dark, was prone to waft. Nor did she mention the conversation between herself and Christine which had so recently taken place. She wanted his mind on her, and her alone. The news that Christine was eloping with the Vicomte de Chagny seemed best kept for later.

* * *

Tora took a long time to adorn herself in her wedding-gown. She examined herself in the mirror, smoothed a few loose, frizzing hairs, and licked her lips nervously. "A bride," she said softly, and felt her stomach lurch a little.

She opened the door and went into the parlor. Erik was lying on the divan, looking very smart in his black suit. He was staring at the ceiling and tapping his fingers on his chest, as though he were plinking out a nervous tune. She still could hardly get used to the strange rubber "skin" on his face.

"I'm ready," she said, in a voice that was hardly audible even to her own ears, but his head turned immediately. He swallowed.

"What about the veil?" he asked.

"I didn't want to get it mussed, or tangled," she said awkwardly. "I'll put it on when we reach the church."

"We'll have to go a different way, to get out," he said. "The Rue Scribe way. Even there, I'll have to carry you so that you don't dirty your gown." He seemed to be trying very hard to keep his composure. He was speaking coolly, but there was an odd trembling in his voice.

"We'll call a cab, then, once we're out into the street," he said. "And…" He sat up, in that quick, graceful way of his. His movements seemed jerky instead of languid, however.

"When we come back—you _will_ let your hair down, won't you?" he asked tremulously. "Take the pins out, so that it tumbles all around you, glossy and long and soft—" He broke off abruptly, tapping his fingers again, this time on the armrest of the divan. "You are very beautiful," he said, sounding like an enamored schoolboy.

Tora felt her color rising unbearably. "Shall we go?" she asked quickly, nevertheless feeling a little tickle of flattered excitement.

"Yes," he said. "One moment—" He went to the other side of the parlor and began fiddling with a strange door, riddled with mechanisms. After a few moments, the door clanked open, and he stood uncertainly beside it.

"I'll have to carry you now," he said, his words awkward and stiff. "Come, come on…"

She went to his side quickly, and gasped a little when he swept her up in his arms, taken off-guard by the suddenness of it.

"Are you sure you ought to carry me?" she asked.

"What ever do you mean?" he snapped, shutting the door behind them with a ponderous _clang._

"Well…if I'm too heavy—" she began.

"If you are implying that my age makes even your slight frame a heavy burden to bear," he said sardonically, "you needn't worry."

"I only—"

"Erik knows very well what you meant," he snapped. "All that talk of dying yesterday…ridiculous."

"But—"

"Be quiet," he said.

Rather than take offense at this, she acquiesced. She didn't want to strike any more tender nerves.

* * *

The carriage ride, though brief, was silent and strained. Erik kept lacing and unlacing his fingers, smoothing his jacket and waistcoat, and nervously tapping his feet. Tora thought she might go mad.

"Erik is…sorry…for snapping at you," he said at last. "He did not mean to offend, nor to make you feel slighted. It is only that he is very nervous about this day, and…even little things seem to bother him more than usual."

Tora said nothing, but slid her hand into his. He squeezed it gratefully, and began stroking it absently while he looked out the window. She was tempted to tell him she was not a cat, but just then they arrived at the church. Erik's body stiffened, and gave a little twitch.

He opened the carriage door and helped her out, the driver having already been paid. "Here we are," he said, his entire body seeming to quiver just a bit. Was it nervousness? Excitement? She couldn't tell, even by looking at his "face."

"I might have written a wedding Mass," Erik said, "but there wasn't enough time."

Tora kissed his hand, feeling another surge of butterflies in her stomach. Had she not been accompanied by him, she might have been very nearly tempted to call the whole thing off and run the other way, but there was nothing for it now. They were here, and it was time.

She took the veil in her hands and slid the little silver comb attached to it into her hair, letting the transparent material float gracefully over her face. She was aware of Erik's eyes on her, and secretly felt a little thrilled, but pretended not to notice.

* * *

After the ceremony was quickly performed by an obliging priest, and they both slipped on their rings (Tora's wedding band was in addition to the elegant engagement ring she had been wearing for weeks), Tora felt so dizzy she thought she might faint. _It's done,_ she thought. She held his arm tightly as they walked out of the church.

"Well," he said, and tried to kiss her when they were out the door. She held up her hand, quick as a flash, a vague look of horror on her face. "Rubber lips?" she asked incredulously. "No, thank you."

Erik looked a little miffed at this.

"As soon as we're inside the Rue Scribe," she said, "promise me you'll take that ridiculous thing off."

"Ridiculous, eh?" he asked between clenched teeth. "That's all well and good for you to say. You've never had to endure the kinds of stares I have. Do you know how infinitely _liberating_ it is, to be treated like everyone else? Of course you don't, because you've always been part of the socially acceptable human race. You haven't the vaguest notion of what it is, do you, to walk about in public and be looked at as though you had escaped the circus? I got none of those sorts of looks today. I feel now I can breathe more easily. I actually feel a vague sense of pride. You call _this_ ridiculous, do you, all this?"

Tora bit her lip, feeling as though she had been struck. "I didn't mean to hurt you, Erik—and I know how proud you are of it. My God, it _is_ amazing, you must believe it, but it's so…_strange_. I'm so used to you, wearing your false nose, or your mask, or not covering your face at all, that this 'new' you is more than a little discomfiting to look at—because _I_ know, even if nobody else does, that it isn't really you. It's not like wearing your mask. It's as though you have an entirely new face, and it's difficult to get used to. Can you understand it? Everyone else may be more pleased to look at you as you are now, but I like you better as you _really_ are."

He was silent for a moment. "It means much, to hear you say so," he said quietly, "as it always has, but I do wish you would show a little more vicarious happiness for me, now that I can go about in public and not be looked at as though I ought to be shut up in a prison or a madhouse."

"I _am_ happy, darling," she said. "But it will take a little getting used to, that's all. I never _was_ ashamed to go out with you before. There was no need to do this solely on my account. That's all I wanted you to know. But—"

"Do you want to walk, or shall we hire another cab?" Erik asked abruptly.

Tora was a little taken aback. "Hire a cab, I suppose," she said.

"Very well," he said smoothly, and whistled and snapped his fingers for the one coming down the street towards them.

* * *

When they had reached the Rue Scribe, and he had unlocked the great iron gate, he reached out his arms for her, to carry her again.

"Wait," Tora said.

"What now?" he asked.

She tugged gingerly at the rubber skin.

Looking highly disgruntled, Erik carefully slid the whole contraption off of his head, hair and all. The thing looked disturbingly like a skinned, limp, severed head, hanging from his clenched fingers.

Tora tried to ignore it. "_There_ you are," she said warmly, and rewarded him with a long, full kiss.

His hand—the one which was not clutching his "second skin"—curled around the back of her neck, fingering a few loose strands of her hair.

"Tora," he murmured, "why do you love your Erik so?"

"Isn't it enough," she whispered, "that I do?"

His fingers slid over her mouth, her chin, down the length of her throat. He halted just above her bosom.

She took off her veil. There was an awkward silence for a moment, and then he hefted her into his arms. "Tuck in your train," he said, and she pulled the back end of her gown into her lap so that it wouldn't drag on the dirty, moist ground. She stared at the wide white rosettes of cloth that adorned her dress. All of a sudden, instead of roses, they looked oddly like the puckered mouths of dead fish she had seen in the Boston marketplace.

As he walked, carrying her, she began to feel strangely languid. The air seemed to thicken, to jell. Her fingers began tracing the sparse black hair at the back of his head, a patchy dark halo. His eyes fluttered half-closed, the strange color of his eyes burning between hooded lids. He offered her only the occasional glance; for the most part, his gaze was fixed ahead.

They reached the door at last, and something in Tora's insides trembled. Otherwise, she felt an almost unnatural calm.

"I shall have to put you down to open the door," he said. "Mind your dress."

She obediently pulled up her skirts a little so that they would not brush the filthy, moist floor. He put her down carefully. She looked up and caught him giving a long, sideways glance to her stockinged ankles. There was another little wave of panic, then, a feeling of dizzy, vaguely horrified faintness, if only for an instant. She closed her eyes for a moment. Several little _snicks_ sounded in front of her, and she opened her eyes.

His fingers were working swiftly on the door, moving so many complex little levers and switches that she could scarcely follow his hands, and could certainly not even begin to discern the pattern of it. "Quite elaborate," she said, for something to say, and he gave a wordless grunt.

At last the door opened ponderously, creaking open with a great iron noise which echoed all around them.

Erik seemed to suddenly be at a loss. She quickly went ahead of him, the blood pounding in her ears and making it difficult to think.

She heard his shuffling step behind her, and the door swung shut with a shockingly loud _boom._ Tora nearly leapt out of her skin.

"Well," she said. She shivered a little, feeling gooseflesh break out on her arms. Her hands were cold, but her cheeks felt unbearably warm. She dropped her train in a fit of clumsiness, fumbling at it with her fingers.

She hardly heard him come up behind her. His fingers, at first deliciously cool against the back of her neck, seemed to grow warmer as they slid into her hair and found the pins that were holding it in place. Tora let out a shivery little gasp.

Her hair tumbled down around her, and he caught it up in his hands, great masses of it. The pins clattered on the floor, little _pings_ echoing and trembling. She could feel him slowly rubbing his face against the bunches of hair he held in his hands, burying his face inside it. His breath was hot.

At length, he let her hair slide from between his fingers. He clasped her shoulders instead, resting his cheek against the top of her head.

"Perhaps a pretty young bride's lover ought not be uncertain," he breathed, choking a little on the word _lover,_ "but this pretty young bride's groom is exactly that."

"Uncertain?" Tora whispered, glancing back. "Doubtful, you mean?"

"No, no" he said. She saw his tongue dart out awkwardly for a moment to wet his mouth, which was probably dry as bone. "I am afraid, you see, that I will make you regret your decision in short order."

Tora let out a nervous little giggle, and immediately covered her mouth, whipping her head back so that she couldn't see him. "Heavens, I'm sorry," she said in a subdued voice. "I…I'm afraid I don't know quite how to behave."

"Married," he said. "Married…" The word hung in the air, suspended, hovering, almost oppressively, but with a definitive air of delicious anticipation.

Tora clasped her fingers together to steady them. "Yes," she said. Oh, this horrid awkwardness! _Why_ could she not bring herself to turn around again?

At length, she did, and managed to timidly clasp the lapels of his jacket.

"I took the coffin away," he said. "I smashed it into kindling. Aren't you pleased?"

"Quite," she said, shivering a little. "I'm very…I'm very proud of you." It seemed a stupid thing to say, and she wished she hadn't. But he seemed pleased by her praise, and that made her glad.

"There is…there _is_ a bed in Erik's room—a real bed, a soft one," he said rather nervously. "In the corner. Behind a curtain. There always has been—he never used it. Well, sometimes…but at any rate…it's a good deal larger than the one in the Louis-Philippe—" He broke off, backing away a step and fiddling agitatedly with one of his few stray locks of hair.

"I suppose I ought to change," she said rather desperately, and was a little taken aback to see him shake his head violently. "No," he said. "No. No."

She had a sudden and sharply delicious realization—unspoken, but somehow crystal-clear—that he liked the way she looked in her dress, liked it so much that he wanted to peel it away himself, unbutton each button and part every fold. She shivered and swallowed.

"I—" She broke off breathlessly, her head swimming.

Their hands clasped, and they stumbled into his room, their lips warm with each other and their fingers fumbling.

* * *

**A/N: Sorry to cut you off (especially those of you dears who have been bugging me about this for frigging eons), but here is just where what used to be a very long Ch. 44 ended, and even when I cut #44 in half and made this half #45, it still seemed like a good place to end the chapter. (I'm rather fond of my characters, and I wanted to give them their privacy--at least for now.) The first time isn't exactly something to shout about from the rooftops anyway; I've already written two other rather awkward, painful deflowering scenes in other upcoming (M-rated) projects and I REALLY didn't feel like writing another one right now, especially one that I would have to struggle to keep T-rated; despite this, I actually tried to write the rest of the scene—I really did try, and even though it turned out sort of funny, it just didn't feel right, and besides, it ruined the sexy buildup BIG TIME. So I just didn't bother.**

**(On the bright side, at least you know that awkward/painful first time or not, somewhere in that floating limbo between this chapter and next chapter, Tora and Erik are finally getting it on.) **

**Besides, now that the first time is out of the way, I can write some properly erotic (although T-rated, of course) scenes in upcoming chapters. So you have that to look forward to, at any rate. :D**


	46. The Bitter and the Sweet

**A/N: I know, you're shocked. Three chapters in less than a week is rather unlike me. However, the update drought you've gotten used to might actually continue, at least for a little while, after this (due to a sudden rather nasty bout of writer's block after this chapter was finished), but I really felt after the last two chapters that I owed you a bit more. And at any rate, it was rather surprising to me at first how quickly I got this chapter done, even with how relatively short it is compared to recent chapters. But because there weren't a whole lot of extraneous details and plot twists and boringly long time frames to wade through, it was a real breath of fresh air to write. Plus, there's quite a lot of…honeymoon stuff, which ought to make all of you **_**really**_** happy—it starts off pretty tame, but it gets pretty borderline. (Although don't mistake me—this chapter is hardly what I would call fluffy, although maybe slightly—but only **_**slightly**_**. I hate fluff; I loathe fluff; I despise fluff…unless it's well-written. Which is about as rare as a real jackalope—although as far as I know, there are no real jackalopes, and I have actually come across one or two well-written fluff stories and a few deftly handled fluffy chapters in otherwise non-fluffy stories in the past. Aside from the odd fluff story or chapter written by a talented writer, for me the term "fluff" generally brings to mind gaggy images of terribly-written pieces of rainbows-and-ponies-and-smiley-faces crap in which everyone is unnaturally cheerful, and usually insanely out of character to boot—especially in a story which up to that point hasn't been the least bit fluffy, and suddenly, out of freaking nowhere, for no apparent reason other than the author apparently got sick of resolving conflict, it's Hippy-Dippy Says Love, and everyone who has been miserable up to that point is suddenly happy. So no, this isn't fluff, in that sense. Oh, no.)**

* * *

Tora poked at her food with the tip of her slightly tarnished silver fork. Erik was a good cook, thank God—Tora couldn't cook to save her life, despite Aunt Agnes' attempts to teach her how—but she didn't feel particularly hungry.

"Perhaps we ought to move into the new apartment after all," she said, desperate to break the silence. It had been three days since the wedding, and he was unusually quiet this morning. "I'd rather like to see the sun peek in through the window in the morning."

Erik's cheek twitched. "Whatever you wish," he said.

"Don't say that," she said. "I hate it when you say that. It means you're being too coolly polite to say that the particular thing I wish isn't what _you _want. I'd rather you just came out with it."

Erik said nothing.

"It isn't that I don't like it here," she said. "I love it, in many ways. But I'm a creature of the daytime, and staying here in perpetual night is beginning already to wear upon my nerves. And you promised—"

"Erik is aware of what he promised," he said brusquely.

"Then—"

Erik sighed. Tora gritted her teeth.

"I can't bring myself to eat anything," she said abruptly. "I'm going to my room."

His eyes flicked upward suddenly to meet hers.

"Is that all you ever think about?" she snapped, and left the table. She slammed her door, but didn't lock it.

* * *

_Fifteen minutes later_

Lying in nothing a tangled shift, her thighs sticky, his bare arm draped around her waist and his warm, sleepy breath wafting against her ear, Tora reflected that marriage was a rather confusing business.

* * *

"Erik has an idea, about his and Tora's living situation," he said the next morning, as he awkwardly pulled a shirt over his head, giving her a brief glance. She was a little shocked at how bony his back was, his spine looking like a sea serpent emerging from the waves. Despite the fact that they had been married for four days, she had never seen him without his shirt until just recently. They generally came together in complete darkness, and as far as seeing the rest of him, she had decided the dreams from before didn't quite count. She touched his backbone gingerly with her fingers, feeling the bumps through his shirt. He shivered a little under her hand. "Perhaps I ought to learn how to cook," she said, unthinkingly changing the subject.

"That wasn't what I was talking about," he said. "Don't be a goose. You'll learn to cook in good time. Why are you acting so strangely?"

Talking of strange, it felt bizarre to sit there watching him dress, even though the only part of him she had seen so far, _really_ seen, was his bare torso, and a few glimpses of his feet and ankles. Even the few times he hadn't snuffed the candles before "putting his sword in her sheathe," as Lise had so aptly put it, she had been lying on her stomach, and afterwards, he was surprisingly deft at putting Erik the Second back into his trousers (which were, during those times, not taken off entirely but only rolled down to his knees so they could be easily pulled back up in a hurry) or under his night-shirt before she could get a peek at it.

"I don't know," she said. She felt a little lost.

His back was still to her. He fumbled with the front of his trousers and tucked his shirt in. She was tempted to crane her neck, but the last thing she wanted at this moment was for him to catch her trying to sneak a look at his member.

"Does love make you self-conscious?" she asked suddenly.

"What?" he asked incredulously.

"Not love," she said, her cheeks red. "_Love._"

He plucked a little at his shirtsleeve. "Oh," he said. "That."

A silence fell.

Tora felt as though she might go mad. "Well?" she asked in exasperation. "Why haven't you ever allowed me to see you?"

"In case my Aphrodite hasn't noticed," Erik said dryly, "her lover is more Hephaestos than Adonis."

"You looked at _me_," she said indignantly, "that first night. You looked at _all_ of me. And then you blew out the candle before I could see an inch more of you than I had already seen."

"Ah," he said with cool composure, pulling his shoes on, "but I gained a substantial amount of pleasure by looking on you. You would get nothing of the same by looking on me."

"Does it matter if I would or wouldn't?" she snapped.

"You don't understand men," he said succinctly. "You're young."

Tora said a rather choice phrase then, about what he could do to himself (and it didn't involve boiling his head), and stormed out.

* * *

She was sitting in the parlor that same evening, reading a rather lurid book about a bar wench and an English pirate (something she had borrowed from Suzette and kept safely tucked in her valise, which she had packed and brought down to Erik's home along with her wedding-dress) when she glanced up and saw Erik staring at her, his hand resting above him on the cold stone wall, and his other hand drumming against his thigh. She was surprised—he had been avoiding her all day.

"What on earth do you want?" she bit out, although she was getting that little tingly feeling she always seemed to get whenever they were about to have a "tumble"—planned or not. She snapped her book shut, not wanting him to see what she was reading. Fortunately the cover was blank, the title visible only on the spine. She took care to turn it away from him, holding it gingerly in her fingers.

"You never did bother to listen to my idea," he said rather sullenly. "Do you have any wish at all to hear it?"

She blinked coolly at him. "If you wish to tell me," she said.

His mouth twitched again, and he straightened. She tried not to look at his legs. If she did, she wouldn't be able to help herself, and it would all be over. Reading Suzette's trashy novel had put in her in the mood for a liaison with Erik the Second far more than she would have cared to admit.

"I have money saved," he said. "Rather than moving all this," he gestured, "to the aboveground apartment, we could instead purchase entirely new furnishings for it. And we could use the house beneath the Opera as a…a sort of week-end home, a place to get away when we need to escape the hustle and bustle of the world above."

Tora bit her lip. "It's a good idea," she said, loving him for it. In fact, it was quite perfect. She had been loathe to abandon this place entirely, despite her wish to live above the ground.

He shifted his feet. "Well, then," he said blandly, and made as if to go, but stood his ground, as though he were uncertain as to what to do next. He gestured weakly at his room. "My—my music," he said, "I'm writing…" and he took a few steps backwards, still looking at her. "I should get back to…"

Tora's book clattered to the floor. Whether Erik had actually been working on his music or not, he never did get back to it.

* * *

The very first time, on the day of their wedding, had not been particularly pleasant. Not, at least, after it _really_ got started. Tora had to admit, it had given her a weird little thrill to be completely bare under his gaze. The feeling of complete vulnerability, almost of a kind of helplessness, had not been as unpleasant as one might have expected. Rather, it had been something quite magnificently arousing. For some reason she couldn't explain, the idea of being completely at Erik's mercy was intensely erotic.

When he had blown out the candle, however, and climbed on top of her, she had nearly panicked. His hands gripping her thighs had been a rather scrumptious feeling, but there was nothing scrumptious about being impaled like a pig on a spit—that was what it had felt like at the time, at least.

It was rather shocking, in a lovely sort of way, how quickly she had actually begun to enjoy herself in the subsequent trysts after that. The first time he had wanted her again, she had been slightly horrified at the prospect, but soon realized that with her maidenhead gone, "love" wasn't so bad after all.

Despite the relative awkwardness of the first few times, and despite the rather ungainly way he often handled her, Tora realized that she was becoming more thoroughly addicted to Erik than she had ever been before, feeling more than ever as though he were some kind of drug.

* * *

It was quite dark in her bedroom—pitch-black, in fact. She could see absolutely nothing. On the bright side, he had actually taken his trousers off this time, not just shoved them down for a quick roll in the bed. She felt his bony body with her hand and abruptly found what she was looking for. Erik gave a strangled, hoarse gasp.

Tora felt indescribably wicked, and it was absolutely delicious. She ran her hand over the object of her search, liking the strangely silken, taut feel of it under her fingers, and he hissed between his teeth. "Ah," he gasped, his sudden intake of breath like a sobbing moan. "_God..."_

"I _like_ being married," she purred.

"No more," he said hoarsely. "No more, or you'll make me—"

"Oh, very well," she sighed, and wrapped her naked thighs around his hips. He nipped at her neck so hard she was sure it was going to leave a mark, and then (after a slightly clumsy moment) he shoved himself forward up to the very hilt. Her shriek of delight was, he told her later, glorious.

* * *

She mentioned in passing, as she lay in his arms in the dark, how she thought of him as a drug. It made him laugh wonderfully. "Am I the needle, and you the voluptuous vein?" he whispered huskily, which made her blush.

"Promise me something," she murmured.

"Anything," he breathed in her ear, a long, languid sigh.

"Let me see you in the morning," she said. "Before you slip away and put your clothes on."

He said nothing.

"_Merde_, Erik—" she said in exasperation.

"Watch your language," he said calmly in reply, lightly squeezing one of her breasts. She twitched.

"Will you?" she asked pleadingly. "Let me see you?"

He was quiet. "Perhaps," he said, and rolled over, his back to her.

* * *

**A/N: In Greek mythology, the gorgeous Aphrodite (who is well-known as the goddess of Love) is married to Hephaestos (known in Roman mythology as Vulcan), a rather hideous, deformed little god who works as Olympus' blacksmith at the forge (and is supposed to be the reason for volcanoes—whose very name derives from the Roman name Vulcan). In one story, Aphrodite meets Adonis, a breathtakingly handsome mortal youth whom she becomes obsessed with and takes as her lover. I can't recall Hephaestos' reaction to this, but if I remember correctly, he was a rather jealous sort—much like Erik.**


	47. Revelations

**A/N: The first part of this chapter is certainly not explicit by any means, but certain descriptions of things may seem a little…close to the wire. Hopefully it managed to stay T-rated. If not…well, let me know, and I'll tweak it, even though I really like how it turned out. :D  
**

**Also, this is another chapter on the shorter side, compared to others (just a little over 3,000 words). All three remaining chapters (I really am planning to go to fifty and end it there) probably will be, as well—these last chapters are becoming increasingly like vignette-type snapshots of their life together, as the story comes to a close.**

* * *

He woke long before she did, as always seemed to happen. He had never been a particularly heavy sleeper even before sharing a bed, and Tora had a tendency to move about in the most adorably annoying fashion while she slept. Sleep mattered little to him at any rate; the warm softness of Tora was better by far than the possibility of getting a decent slumber in his own bedroom. After lying alone for such long years, the feeling of a warm feminine body beside him was alien and strange—but it was good.

He especially liked the feel of her pert, squashy little breasts as they pressed against his back, how the soft rosebuds at their tips seemed to crinkle and blossom as they came in contact with his cool skin. He liked how her arm snaked sleepily around his middle, how her fingers, as they dangled millimeters from his skin, brushed in a tickly sort of way against the patchy sprinkling of hair that led to his nether-regions.

"Erik?" she muttered groggily.

"You're up early, little bird," he said.

"Mmph," she said, and slowly wrapped her hand around Erik the Second. He gave a hissing gasp.

"I rather like the idea of morning love," she murmured, "if it really is morning. Who can tell, down here?" And without warning, she climbed on top of him.

* * *

"You promised, you know," she said while cutting her egg, "that you'd let me see you."

"I never did," he replied aggravatedly. "I alluded nebulously to a future possibility." He spread a bit of jam on his toast a little more violently than was necessary.

Her mouth twitched a little. "Was it…good?" she asked. "What I did in there?"

"Must we speak about this over breakfast?" he snapped. "This talk embarrasses Erik."

"Why should it embarrass you to speak of it, but not embarrass you in the slightest to actually perform it?" she queried.

Erik dropped his knife irritably. "Upon my word," he said between his teeth, "there is nothing in this world more exasperating than a prattling female."

"It's very simple, you know," she said in a rather exasperated tone. "Was it good or not?"

"It was good," he said succinctly.

She was silent for a moment. "That's all?" she asked.

Erik thought he might go mad. "You _said_ it was a simple matter—"

"I know," she said, "but couldn't you tell me anything more than that?"

Erik groaned. "Fine," he snapped. "You took me rather delightfully by surprise. Is that sufficient to satisfy you?"

"Quite," she said contentedly, and continued eating her food. Erik thought privately to himself that women were damnably fickle creatures, and half-wondered why he had ever gotten married at all—but then remembered Tora climbing on top of him; he quickly reflected that it could no doubt be argued that the overwhelming pleasures of marriage far outweighed the vaguely irritating pitfalls.

* * *

They took a walk outside in the sunshine for the first time since they had been married. The warm rays felt good against Tora's skin. "I'm happy," she said. "I really am—happier than I've ever been. I wanted you to know."

He brushed her knuckles against his lips—or rather, the skin-like rubber which covered them. "It makes Erik glad," he replied, "to hear you talk that way. I would endeavor many things for your happiness."

She smiled. As she looked into the distance, she remembered the strange sensation produced in her that morning, after love. Perhaps it really was woman's intuition, perhaps it was merely the product of an overactive imagination—whatever the case, no-one could possibly know for certain so early—but she had gotten the distinct, niggling feeling that the acts of this morning had gotten her with child. She had tried to shove it away all day, but it lingered.

"Erik," she said softly, "would it…would it bother you terribly if I…" She bit her lip.

"What, sweeting?" he asked.

"If I…if I were with child," she managed. "Oh, I don't know yet, it's only a feeling…a silly, stupid feeling…it's two weeks yet before I might have any sort of real…scientific…inkling. But if I were…"

His hand trembled a little in hers. "I'd hardly know what to think," he said. "Would you be content?"

"I don't know," she said shakily. "I don't know."

"Let us wait to discuss it until it is certain," he said. "Else we shall both be driven mad, wondering. Put it from your mind until then, and I shall do my level best to put it from mine."

"Very well," she whispered, her fingers tightening around his hand.

* * *

They bought several pieces of furniture later that day, including a large bed, and had them brought to the flat and arranged in a way which pleased them both. "We ought to have a chaise longue by the window in the sitting-room," said Erik. "What do you think?"

"_Oui,_" said Tora. "I'd like that very much."

Erik ordered bedding and rugs the same day. "It will take a week or two to import them," he said, "but it will be well worth it. For now, if you'd like to sleep here, we might have some of the bedding from the underground home brought up."

She gave him a long, full kiss—his _faux_ lips notwithstanding.

The bed, incidentally, ended up being christened long before they brought up any bedding.

* * *

Tora had written a hasty letter to Aunt Agnes in the days after Patrick's disappearance, explaining that he had decided to come back home and that his parents ought to expect him shortly. She had not mentioned her upcoming marriage, as she had yet been unsure of her course at that time.

Now, however, she thought perhaps she ought to write to Aunt and inform her of the news, and perhaps ask if there was any news of Patrick. She made sure not to let Erik know about it; heaven knew he had been jealous enough of Patrick before being married—who knew what he might be like now? She posted the letter quietly when Erik was in town fetching food for the flat, and prayed the response to either letter would come quickly.

* * *

_Tora, my dear,_

_Patrick has indeed come back, but his parents think him mad. He raves on and on about how you aren't in safe hands, how you're in the grip of some ghost or goblin. At intervals he says it is not really a ghost at all, but a man who is bent upon taking advantage of you and every other person who dwells in the Opera. I hardly know what to think; his parents are trying to keep the whole thing quiet, pretending that he was actually off on some sort of business venture for his father, but I don't think anyone is fooled—least of all Constance, who knows the whole tale. She is quick at spreading gossip. I don't think I shall live with her any longer—her temperament is beginning to wear upon me more and more with every passing week. I'll find some comfortable place, and perhaps take up work at a little sewing or button shop, where I can make a little money to live on and be at peace in my gathering age. Do come to visit me sometime, for I greatly miss your company and feel it a terrible loss to have you so far away. _

_All my love,_

_Aunt Agnes_

* * *

_Dear Tora,_

_So you are married! Happy news indeed—and a bit to take me off-guard! I only just received your second letter after I had sent my reply to the first. I hope that Patrick's ramblings are those of a slightly addled boy and not truth—if indeed you are married to the gentleman of whom he speaks, I must confess I would be a little worried. At any rate, I wish you every happiness. I have moved away from Constance's abode, and dwell now in a little place of my own, which I share with two other spinsters like myself. I have been able to secure employment in a flower shop, and I am quite happy. _

_All my love, _

_Aunt Agnes_

* * *

"I like it here," Tora murmured, her hand sliding over Erik's bony chest as her head lay on his shoulder. "It's quiet, and it doesn't drip."

Erik chuckled. "It isn't particularly difficult to get used to—not, at any rate, as difficult as I thought it should be," he said. "I rather find that I like living a perfectly normal, married life. Do you think I ought to go back to playing Ghost at the Opera, or should I sell my architectural talents instead?"

"Oh, do take up an honest trade," she begged him. "It would make me so much happier. I may even give up dancing altogether in a year or two—especially…" She broke off.

"Your bleeding didn't come today," he said quietly.

"No," she whispered, "it didn't."

They lay there for a moment, nestled against each other, their hearts thudding in time.

"Perhaps a day or two more," she managed. "Sometimes…sometimes it doesn't always…"

Erik said nothing.

* * *

_Six months later_

"Your sewing is coming along admirably," Erik said approvingly as they sat in the parlor.

"Is it?" Tora asked absently. "I'm glad." She held up a tiny gown, the sleeves still not attached. "I do hope it's large enough," she said dubiously. "And that it shan't fall to pieces once he wears it—or she." Privately, Tora suspected it was a boy.

"Give it to me once you're finished," Erik said without looking up from his book, "and I'll go over all the seams."

"Rather silly, isn't it, that you're the one who knows how to cook and how to sew, and I'm something of a hopeless hand at either," Tora said sardonically.

"Oh, come now," said Erik. "As I told you, your sewing is coming along admirably."

"What about the bread?" asked Tora sullenly. "The one I made yesterday?"

"Lopsided," said Erik, "and too much flour. But a marked improvement on the last loaf."

"Oh, _merci,_" Tora muttered sarcastically.

"I am merely being brutally honest," Erik retorted smoothly. "If one wishes to improve, one must be aware of one's mistakes in order to correct them."

Tora's mouth twitched, and she suddenly sat up straight. "Oh-oh!" she said. "Someone's up and about."

Erik put down his book. "Want to feel?" Tora asked. He shrugged, but she was hardly fooled by his apparent nonchalance.

Tora rose uncomfortably from the chaise longue and walked over to his chair. He put his long hand on her abdomen. "Nothing," he said, looking slightly miffed. "Unsurprising."

"Wait for it," Tora said gently.

"This is absurd," Erik said irritably. "Why should—" Suddenly he took his hand away, a vague expression of shock stamped on his features.

Tora grinned.

* * *

"You ought to be resting at home," he said. "You oughtn't be walking about in the city, even if it's with me."

"Oh, don't be ridiculous," she said. "I've been cooped up long enough. Besides, I'm perfectly all right."

"What if something should happen?" he snapped. "A carriage could careen out of control. Someone could be hurrying by and knock you down. You might lose your footing on a slick spot on the street—"

"_Would_ you stop all that?" Tora demanded. "Good gracious, you worry more than enough for all three of us put together."

Erik grunted. "Someone must," he said. "You're far too unconcerned for your own welfare."

"Oh, hush," she groused. "The doctor says I'm young and strong and healthy. He did say to be careful about stairs, but—"

Erik stopped. "I've seen that woman before," he said. "_Where_ have I seen her?" Tora followed his gaze.

"Oh, that can't be the woman you told me about, the one who came up to you while you bought my dresses years ago," she said. "How on earth could you recognize her?"

"It _is_ her," he said. "And come to think of it—no, that's impossible."

"What?" she asked. "_What's_ impossible?"

"Persia," he whispered, his fingers going slack in her hand. "Persia. That was it! I knew her in Persia."

"But she isn't Persian," Tora said. "Don't they have much darker skin than that? She looks European."

"She was," Erik said. "Is. She was from Wales. Captured while her family was traveling by sea. The Shah told me. _Why _did I not remember?"

They fell into step behind the woman. He briefly touched her shoulder. "Gwri," he said.

The woman looked behind her with a start. "How do you know my name?" she whispered. "I don't go by that name here. I haven't heard that name in years. They call me Charlotte here."

Erik seemed a little taken aback. Tora was beginning to feel very embarrassed. "Excuse us, _madame,_" she said politely, and turned to go, but Erik grasped her arm. "You were the Shah's favorite," he said. "For a time. And then when you fell from his favor…"

The woman—Gwri, Charlotte—Tora hardly knew what to call her—put a hand to her mouth. "No," she said. "You won't take me back. I won't go. They'll kill me."

"Gwri," said Erik. "It's I."

"Who?" she asked, peering into his face—or rather, the facsimile of one.

"She won't recognize you with that getup," Tora muttered. "Are you at all surprised?"

"The Angel of Death," Erik said uneasily. "Do you remember?"

Gwri put a hand to her mouth. "You!" she gasped. "But you look so different. I came upon you in the dress shop almost four years ago—at least I thought I did—but you didn't recognize me then. _Was_ that you?"

"It was," Erik said awkwardly, "but my mind was elsewhere."

She grasped Tora's hands. "When I fell from favor with the Shah," she said, "he got me out. He got me away. He helped me escape." She turned to Erik. "Did they suspect you?" she asked. "Did you have any trouble on my account?"

"A little," Erik said succinctly. "But it took two more years for I myself to fall completely out of favor with the Shah."

"_Why_ do you look so different?" she asked.

"It's a mask," he said uncomfortably. "You might not believe it, but—"

"I'd believe anything, as far as you're concerned, _monsieur,_" she said. She looked at Tora. "The things I saw him do! Some of his tricks were unfathomable." She glanced at Erik. "I'm glad to see you married. That dreadful scene with Jazira—my God, it—"

"I would," Erik said rather curtly, "prefer not to discuss it, if you don't mind."

"Oh," she said. "Forgive me. My tongue…at any rate…it is good to know you are happy and well. I often wondered."

"Thank you," he said awkwardly.

Tora glanced sidelong at him, fully planning to ask him who on earth "Jazira" was as soon as they were out of earshot.

"I must be going," Gwri said. They said polite good-byes and Tora walked silently with Erik for a few moments before saying, "Jazira—"

"A harem girl," Erik said between his teeth. "I see you're determined to know."

"Rather," she said a little dangerously.

He sighed. "The Shah thought it might be…amusing…to give me a gift. Hence, Jazira." He was silent for a moment. "Jazira did not think it quite so amusing as the Shah. She threw herself out of the window."

"Why?" Tora gasped.

Erik pointed wordlessly at his face. Tora blanched. "I didn't mean to bring up a sore subject," she said.

"Women and their damned curiosity," he said blandly. "I'd prefer to forget it, if you don't mind."

Tora's cheeks were hot. She felt dreadful for having prodded him to reveal something as disturbing as that.

"And don't trouble your head about something going on between myself and Gwri," Erik said, as if it were an afterthought. "She wouldn't have cast her eyes on me at any rate, but she always preferred women to men. It amused the Shah for a time, as did a great many things, but then he tired of it. That was why she fell from his favor."

Tora glanced at Erik. "You _knew_ about this?" she asked incredulously.

"I knew a great deal," he said curtly. "I have a knack for picking up stray bits of gossip."

"With all you did in Persia," she said, "it seems strange that you should have helped a harem girl at the expense of your own neck."

Erik shrugged. "I pitied her," he said. "It was one of my attempts to atone for my many atrocities."

Tora slid her hand into his. "I think you have," she said softly, "in more ways than one."

He lifted her up into his arms and carried her over their doorway. When he let her down, he knelt in front of her and laid his cheek against her belly. "It seems so," he said.


	48. Fruition

**A/N: This chapter's one of those "short but sweet" types. I myself was rather surprised at how relatively small it ended up being - on the other hand, tapering off with shorter chapters sort of makes the whole story into a kind of parabola shape, chapter-length-wise. **

**I'm rather surprisingly excited for this story to be almost over. Two chapters to go, after this...I just need to think up decent material.**

**I thought about skipping the birth scene entirely and just jumping to the aftermath, but that seemed vaguely childish. At any rate, it's not too graphic - stays well within the rating. (Incidentally, for those of you who haven't given birth, every single experience is entirely different with regards to the length of the labor, pain levels and tolerance, size of the baby, etc., so do try not to think of this as some kind of cookie-cutter birth scene, because it isn't - it certainly carries more than a few elements of my own experience, but it's also a composite of other women's experiences as well. My own labor lasted only seven hours from the time my water broke, due to being on Pitocin; some women's last much longer than even portrayed here.)  
**

**

* * *

  
**

Tora got up stiffly from her chair, holding her back. "_Must_ you clatter around so?" she asked irritably. "Perhaps we ought to merely hire a maid."

Erik threw her a rather venomous look. "Go upstairs and lie down," he said.

"I don't want to," she said. "Besides, Marie is coming any moment."

"Ah!" he growled. "I still fail to see what was so dreadfully wrong with—"

"Dr. St.-Jean was an incurable ass," she retorted. "Marie treats me as though I were a woman, rather than a medical study. If we have any more children after this, I'll certainly keep to midwives rather than doctors."

"That woman looks at me as though she can see through my skin," Erik said between his teeth. "Or rather my second skin. Always narrowed eyes, always curt responses."

"You've never really attempted to develop your social graces in any great abundance, you know," said Tora. "It's no wonder she treats you coldly. Marie's a friendly woman, to those who are friendly to her in return."

A knock sounded at the door. Tora glanced at Erik. "You can hide, if you want," she said with a little amusement. "I daresay she won't miss you."

Erik stalked from the room without another word.

* * *

On the twentieth night of her ninth month (according to some rather haphazard calculations), Tora turned and fidgeted in bed, unable to get the slightest bit of sleep. There were continuous dull, rising pains in her lower back and abdomen. Just as soon as they seemed to be abating, and she would sink gratefully into the pillow, back they'd come, as though they took a fiendish delight in tormenting her.

She finally clawed at Erik's arm. He sat up. "You've been tossing like a Salem witch," he groused. "Is it him?"

Tora was convinced the child was a boy, and had been doing everything in her power to convince Erik of it as well. Apparently it had worked, because he had been referring to the child in the masculine gender for over three weeks.

"I don't know," said Tora. "Marie said…" All at once, there was a gush of fluid from between her legs. Tora shrieked and leaped out of bed—quite a feat, considering the unwieldy size of her belly. "Oh, dear God," she said.

"What?" Erik demanded. "What is it?" She saw him in the dim light from the window feeling the wet spot with his hand. "I think it's the bag—the waters from the bag...well, not really water, but that's what they call it," Tora said. "What Marie talked about…the water-bag bursting, the one that contains the baby? Sometimes they're born with the bag intact, and it's called being born in caul, but more often than not—" She shrieked again.

"It's running down my legs!" she said, frantically grabbing at the sheet and trying to mop it up. It was no use, however; the fluid kept coming. "Oh, for heaven's sakes," she muttered. "I feel like a child."

"Is it serious?" Erik asked with a little alarm.

"No, silly—I don't think so—Marie said it was quite natural—but it means the baby ought to be here soon, if—" Tora felt a sharper pain then, and clutched the bedpost to steady herself. "Fetch Marie," she said succinctly.

* * *

Nearly seventeen hours later, Tora began beating the bed with her fists. The pains had been steadily building over the last twenty minutes, after remaining relatively constant with regards to severity for several hours before that. She had been vaguely pleased—thinking to herself, _I can stand this, this isn't so dreadful_—but all that was changing more rapidly than she could blink.

She let out a long, loud scream. "Pressure!" she gasped, sobbed. "Oh, so much weight, I can't stand it—I can't—"

"You're doing splendidly," Marie assured her. "You've got a fine build for childbearing—"

"No!" Tora screamed, alternately wanting to hold onto Marie as though she were an anchor or wanting to hit her over the head with something. "I—can't—STAND IT! DO YOU HEAR ME?"

Erik appeared at the door, his knuckles gripping it whitely.

"She's fine, M. Gravois," Marie said brusquely. "Find yourself some occupation for a few minutes. The child ought to be here quite soon."

Tora's wanting to hurl something at somebody's head was, for a moment, directed entirely at Erik for having done this to her in the first place. Fortunately for him, there was nothing at hand.

She pushed, thinking _Oh dear heaven it feels so good, so good to push, so good so good so good so good—_

When this had occurred for several minutes, pushing, relaxing, falling back into the pillow, wondering _why doesn't the baby come, why why WHY won't it come, why after all this—_she pushed again, and felt a blazing-hot pain around her opening—_it burns it burns IT BURNS—_screamed, cried.

She felt something, something round and seemingly impossibly large—_it won't come out, it can't, it won't fit, I'll never do it, I'll die—_and Marie's gentle, excited whispering, "It's the head, _cher_, it's the head," and it burned and burned, and she sobbed with the exertion, with the heady exhilaration of this bloody, painful miracle, and pushed for another good five minutes before a weird, wonderful feeling came over her—_bottle of champagne whose cork has just popped,_ she thought wildly—and something slid out of her, like a fish, a slippery, wet, flailing body, and she saw it in Marie's waiting hands, saw the blotched little form, pink skin, red blood, white filmy cheese coating its head and parts of its body, like a cap of snow. She laughed then, and then tried desperately to stop because the laugh came from deep inside and pulled between her thighs, and that hurt dreadfully.

"There's still more to come," said Marie, "the afterbirth." Tora didn't know quite what she meant by this. She felt slippery little limbs being placed in her arms, and shuddered with overwhelming joy, a kind of marvelous release, while Marie cut the cord with a knife.

She saw the little sex, and laughed again. "Nicolas, Nicolas," she whispered, and tried to feel connected to this coughing, crying creature who had taken up residence in her body for an eternity. It was hard, melding the two ideas—the nebulous fluttering punches and rolls she had felt within her body belonging to this concrete being, this tiny stranger.

But he was no stranger, was he? Not really. She tried to convince herself of this, as she stared at the squinted, scrunched eyes, made every effort to convince herself that he was hers, hers and Erik's, really truly theirs. It all felt so vaguely surreal, like a floating, waking dream.

"I think I expected him to look a little better," she muttered, privately adding _in this particular scenario, at any rate,_ _or I should have expected him to look much worse,_ and Marie laughed. "He'll look fine, just fine, once I've bathed him," she said. "Go on, put him to your breast for now."

Tora positioned him awkwardly, guided by Marie's gentle hands. Nicolas' impossibly small, puckered mouth opened wide, closed around the pink rosebud and the slightly darker flesh encircling it. "He's mine," Tora said with a little shock, a little awe. "Mine, really mine. Mine and Erik's."

Something else came from between her legs, then, something dark and strange. She expelled it as quickly as she could, the motions of it seemingly helped by Nicolas' insistent sucking at her breast. Marie told her it stimulated the afterbirth, helped it to pass. Tora didn't particularly want to look at it; she was far more interested in the long, rounded shape of her son, the odd nature of his arms and legs, at once stick-like but looking vaguely like soft bread-dough.

She hardly noticed Erik come, hardly heard Marie's bustling to get everything cleaned. Abruptly she saw a long, pale hand tentatively touching the wet little head. "Hair black as pitch," she heard him say in a whisper. "Just as mine used to…"

She giggled a little, giddily. Then she grew sober. "You won't hate him, will you?" she muttered.

"Good heavens," said Erik. "Why should I?"

"Because…because…" She didn't want to say it aloud, didn't want to mention the snub little nose, round and perfect.

"Have you any idea how I've worried myself sick, these last months?" he whispered. "Wondering if…"

"Then you're glad," she said. "You're glad?"

"Of course I'm glad," he snapped. "Do you think I should wish my curse on my worst enemy, let alone my own ch…" He stopped for a moment. "Child," he finished at last, the word a strange breath on his lips.

"It's taking me quite some time to get used to, as well," said Tora. "the idea of his being ours, really ours. But it seems to be becoming rather easier all the time." She glanced down at the small, moist body, at the little hand curled in a fist and resting on her breast, the little cheek pressed against it. He was still and silent now, seeming to be quite asleep, his tiny chest rising and falling.

Erik seemed vaguely uncomfortable. "I never really envisioned," he said, "the aftermath of all this."

"What do you mean?" she asked softly.

"The reality," he said flatly. "The pressing, crushing weight of responsibility. I feel as though I am walking on the edge of a knife."

"For heaven's sakes, Erik, he's not even an hour old yet," Tora muttered, although his words gave her pause, as well.

She wondered what their lives would be like, how it would all be affected by this. _I'm grown-up now,_ she thought, _really truly grown-up, beyond a doubt. My son. I have a son. _

Images and thoughts ran through her mind like water, flowing endlessly until she, too, succumbed to the welcoming embrace of slumber after the long ordeal.


	49. Balm of Gilead

**A/N: Apologies again for the wait. This chapter = short but sweet. (The last paragraph, I have to admit, is borderline fluff, but I don't think it's TOO fluffy, just happy.) The next (and very last) chapter is already written, and I'll post it within the next few days – somehow I just can't bear to end it all right this minute. To admit that it's finally done is almost too much. It's kind of like cutting the umbilical cord…I just need a little time.**

**

* * *

**

Tora slept with a six-month-old Nicki in her arms, his small puckered mouth nestled against the soft skin of her breast. Erik stood at the window, leaning his hand against the wooden frame, alternately looking out into the city and back at his slumbering pair of devotees.

He often found himself quite baffled by the sight of them when walking into a room, or waking to find them in his bed. There was ever a feeling of bitter tenderness, mixed with a kind of strange resentment, where Nicolas was concerned. The surreality of the child's existence had not ceased since he was born. Erik had experienced dozens of dreams in which Nicolas was born with sunken cheeks and a gaping nasal orifice, or, alternately, in which he discovered Tora with a dashing black-haired lover. The horror of each was exquisite, but it was the latter which caused him to wake in nightly sweats—the idea that Nicolas was not his at all, but the product of some illicit liaison brought on by Tora's boredom and longing for a more handsome partner.

She had never given him cause to doubt—but doubt he did. The only thing that consoled him and quieted such uncertainty was that Nicolas, while very well-formed, was not a pretty child. There was no particularly cherubic quality about his face, which, though round, was generally solemn and intent. Erik had often been unnerved by the piercing quality of the child's eyes, though he took a keen delight in showing Nicolas his architectural drawings, which one would never have expected such a young infant to be even slightly interested in. Nicolas would sit quietly on the floor, gazing at him, his face oddly serious. Occasionally he would bat at the paper with a chubby hand, or try to grab it.

Erik continued watching the two of them as they slept, and recalled Tora's recent disinterest in bedroom trysts during the last fortnight or so. Could it be that she was, indeed, occupied elsewhere? Or was it merely the strain of caring for the child—which Erik doubted, for Nicolas was surprisingly well-behaved—which caused her to be so?

As though on cue, Tora's eyes fluttered open. She ran her hand sleepily over Nicki's black curls, and then glanced at the window, where the moonlight shone upon her husband's gaunt frame.

"Why are you not in bed?" she murmured.

"I am finding it…difficult…to sleep," he said.

"Is Nicki bothering you?" she said. "Are we taking up too much room? I'll put him in his cradle, if you want me to…"

"No need," he said gruffly.

Her eyes moved over him, suddenly, and he felt that odd tingle, almost a shiver. "If I put him in his cradle," she said, "we would be alone."

She had not propositioned him like this in weeks. Was it merely a farce, meant to placate him, to throw him off the trail? Or was she quite serious in such intimations? He had never been able to understand it, the flush of her face, the pink glow of her body after being speared upon the long implement of his desire. It was his doubts which had caused him to at last cease always coming to her in complete darkness—he had wanted to see, to know. The sounds she made had always reassured him until one terrible evening when the idea came upon him that such sounds could be a lie, the product of acting. After that, as much as it embarrassed him, he began to light candles when they came together, so that he could look at her face, plumb its secrets as he plumbed the depths of her body.

Tora's eyes flickered. "You don't want to?" she asked softly, apparently reading his distant, distracted expression as a lack of ardency.

"Tora," he said hollowly, "are you…have you been…" He broke off. "Put Nicolas to bed," he said, "and then come back."

"Is something the matter?" she asked.

"Yes…no. I haven't an idea," he said, looking out the window again.

Tora lifted Nicki in her arms and left the room quietly, coming back when she had deposited him in his cradle in the adjoining room. He saw her enter out of the corner of his eye, but still kept his gaze fixed upon the streets outside.

Her arms slid around his middle from behind, and a long, delicious shiver crept up his spine. In spite of his doubts, Erik the Second was already rising to the occasion, especially when one of her hands began a downward climb to where the throbbing organ lay waiting.

She _was_ faithful; he knew it, suddenly, as she stood on tiptoe to run her lips against the nape of his neck, her breath hot against his skin. It seemed nigh impossible, but he knew it all the same. Her love radiated from the touch of her fingers, and the warm welcome of her lips when he turned to claim them with his own. There was no guile in her embrace, no pretense in the snaking movement of her thigh as it brushed his hip. This was love, and it was good, and to know it at last for certain was as a beam of delicious light traveling through his being, opening the dark places and filling them with sunshine.


	50. Requiem

**A/N: Sorry this took a little bit longer than I promised. Do try not to be too jarred by the beginning of this chapter; it's more or less an epilogue of sorts, so quite a bit of time has passed—and I mean **_**quite**_** a bit of time. **

**

* * *

**

The day was grey and windy; little droplets of rain spotted the clothes of the four people who stood by the unassuming, freshly-dug grave.

Tora glanced at her children. Nicki stood a little farther away from the group, his hands in his pockets. He was nineteen, and did not seem to be taking it all very well—although she knew, in her heart of hearts, that he was far more resilient than she gave him credit for.

Marie, the middle child, seventeen, twirled a lock of flaxen hair around her finger. She was the only really beautiful child out of the three, and, Tora thought with a bit of amused regret, had been Erik's least favorite for more reasons than one. Marie tended to be vain and careless, and had gotten with child last year—Erik had been furious. The father of Marie's child was a young nobleman, who at first couldn't be bothered to care about the effects of his wild oat-sowing, but only a fortnight after the pregnancy was discovered, he had shown up at their door looking pale and drawn, requesting that a marriage between himself and Marie take place without delay—there would, he promised, be no opposition from his family. Tora suspected, although she had no proof, that Erik had had some hand in this—she had noted the visible relief on the groom's face after the vows had been taken, and was almost certain that some kind of ghostly threat had been predicated upon failure to marry Marie within a specified amount of time. There was something in the newspaper about a haunting in the household where the young man had lived prior to his marriage to Marie, and although Tora had never bothered to ask Erik, she had noted a kind of smugness about him in the days following. Even so, she wondered if it had been the best choice—Marie's husband was frequently away from home, as he was today—but Erik had pooh-poohed Tora's doubts, saying that if Marie did not marry the father of her child, she would be ruined and no-one would marry her at all. And Marie had certainly been willing enough to follow through with it—she seemed content, by all accounts. Michel, her baby, was currently at home with his nurse, as Marie had not wanted to take him outside in the gloomy weather.

Vivienne, whom everyone referred to as Vivi, was only twelve. Tora had suffered several miscarriages in the interim between Marie and Vivi, and the latter's birth had finished her fertility for good. It was Vivi, Tora thought, who had ironically finally acclimated Erik to the idea of having several children—he had ceased being quite so aloof with his offspring after that. She was without doubt the sweetest of the three, though she was quite plain, with eyes that perpetually seemed to have dark circles beneath them, and pale, wan skin. Her only real beauty was her hair—like Nicki's, it was raven-colored, "black as pitch," as Erik had put it, and it was soft and silken. Erik had referred to Nicki and Vivi as his "little crows"—he had, Tora knew, been slightly dubious about the paternal origins of Marie, but for her oddly elongated fingers and the strangely hypnotic way she had of speaking when she fiercely wanted something. She might have been a marvelous piano player, had she possessed the patience—yet another reason Erik had been the least fond of his middle child, for while Marie seemed to have a certain capacity for music, she had lacked totally any sort of motivation to cultivate it, preferring to spend her days primping and frittering. Vivi, on the other hand, was enthralled by music—and, unfortunately, was not very talented at all. Erik had tried to teach Vivi over and over again, but she had a terrible voice, and while she had the patience of an ox at practicing musical instruments, it took her a dreadfully long time to develop even the most mediocre skill in them. Nicki, meanwhile, was a natural at the violin—Erik had been quite proud of this, although he had let it show far less than Tora (or, for that matter, Nicki) might have liked. There had been an odd relationship between the two of them, Nicki and Erik—Tora suspected it was because Nicki was a boy, and so like Erik that it had rather unnerved him. Nicki was no good at inventing, insofar as Tora was aware—he had never even tried, to her knowledge—but he was a great hand at architectural design as well as the violin, and had an unusual propensity for solving trick mechanisms. Tora had noticed a cautious kind of worship in him toward Erik, which had been less contained when he was very young—he had made no secret of it then, but had apparently learnt to hold it back over the years. He had taken to calling Erik "sir" in the last few years, rather than "father."

Tora herself was feeling quite calm—surprisingly calm—about her husband's recent passing. It had been a shock, to be sure—he had simply collapsed, and it was suspected that he had suffered some kind of aneurysm in his brain—but she had, privately, been expecting it for years, even though his health had always seemed unusually good. She had prepared herself—she had forced herself to prepare, ever since those few days before their marriage, when she had realized from the very first that she would be widowed at a relatively young age, due to the discrepancy between them—but really, she was grateful he had lived as long as he had. There was a strange peace wallowing in the depths of her grief, something which belied the tragedy as merely another part of life.

She scooped up a handful of the freshly piled dirt in her fingers, and let it sift through her hands.

"Are you all right, Mother?" Nicki asked quietly.

"I'm fine, darling," she said. "I'm all right."

Vivi had not let go of Tora's arm since the coffin had been put in the ground. Her eyes were much hollower than usual, and she stared blankly ahead of her, almost unblinking. Tora worried for her, suddenly—Nicki was practically a man, and would recover from the blow soon enough, and Marie had hardly been affected at all, but Vivi was a tender young shoot, frail and easily bruised. Tora hoped fervently that Erik's death would not break her youngest child, but she wondered even so, as she gathered her in her arms and felt the small, cold hands clasp her own.

* * *

Later that evening, Marie brought Michel to the house, and they all sat together at dinner, quiet, but taking solace in each other's company.

Vivi hardly touched her food. She looked like a pale little ghost, expressionless and unmoving.

Marie tried to chatter inanely in her way as she bounced Michel on her knee, but even she seemed unusually somber.

Nicki kept massaging his temples, glancing every so often at Vivienne, who still stared blankly at her plate.

"Vivi, you _must _eat something," Tora said in desperation. Vivi forlornly mumbled something incoherent under her breath.

"I have news," Nicki said suddenly, making them all jump. "I _had _planned to tell you all two days past, but…" He broke off, and nobody said a word.

"I'm engaged," he said at last, and Tora looked at him in surprise. Even Vivi slowly raised her head.

"To whom?" Marie asked rather breathlessly.

Color rose in Nicolas' cheeks. "Mirielle St.-Paul," he said, and Tora's mouth twisted a little in mirth. "Suzette's daughter?" she asked. "I hadn't known you and she were…"

Nicki blushed a shade deeper, and quickly shoved a forkful of food into his mouth. Marie giggled, and even Vivi bore a faint smile on her face.

"I wanted you all to know," he said. "I rather wish he could have heard…"

"I'm sure he knows," Tora said calmly, "and I'm sure he's quite pleased. He loved you all very much, you know—though he was not always a great hand at expressing it."

A little color seemed to come back into Vivi's cheeks, and her body seemed to relax a bit. She poked at her food.

"Remember when I broke his violin?" Marie said suddenly, sounding quite cheerful.

"We thought you had gone mad," Nicki muttered. "_I _did, at any rate—"

"Nicki tried to hide the pieces, told him he hadn't any idea where the violin was," Marie said. "Finally I'd had enough of Nicki sweating, and I marched straight up to Father and told him I'd smashed it because I was tired of hearing Nicki practice!"

"I don't remember," Vivi said quietly.

"You were too young," said Nicki. "At any rate—I was terrified. I thought Marie was going to get her neck snapped. But he simply stood there, glaring—his fingers were clenched around the banister so tight, I thought the knob would pop off! Then he simply left, and locked himself in his study for two whole days—remember, Mother, how you tried to bring him food?"

Tora grimaced. "I remember," she said. "I was tempted to give Marie a good spanking."

"You were always too soft for that," giggled Marie.

Stories continued winding around the table, softening the past gloom of the day and making everyone feel more at ease. Life, Tora thought, would go on. She hoped Erik could see them, see the fruits of his labors, for here, at last, was pure proof that he had achieved what he had always hoped for—a normal life.

_Fin_

_

* * *

_

**A/N: As I'm writing this last author's note, I find myself getting a little more choked up than I expected—not because of the nature of this chapter, but simply because of the end of the journey, which is always more than a little bittersweet. This story is almost five years old now, and while I'm glad it's done (although it's technically not, since I'm still working on revising those awful old chapters), I'm still a little sad. An odd thing happened while writing this chapter—as I "got to know" Tora's children through my imagination, I wanted to explore them still further. It seemed there were a thousand questions begging to be answered, and I desperately wanted to answer them, but the tale just seemed like it needed to be done at last. Maybe sometime I'll post a separate companion-type fic that's a series of vignettes about their childhoods, and the stories surrounding the younger two's births (especially if I get a lot of requests for something like that), but I don't know. We'll see. **

**To my darling readers: I love you all, and appreciate your support. It's been a long and glorious ride with you aboard. **

_**Adieu.**_


End file.
